


hands held higher

by fletcherstringham



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Brotherhood/03 Mashup, Canon-Typical Violence, FMA Polyship Week, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Xerxes | Cselkcess, more tags to be added probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 73,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fletcherstringham/pseuds/fletcherstringham
Summary: In his quest for the Philosopher's Stone, Amestris' youngest State Alchemist uncovers a nationwide conspiracy that threatens everything he holds dear. Sound familiar? Not quite.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended for [FMA Polyship Week 2016](http://fmapolyshipweek.tumblr.com/) (prompt: ‘roleswitch AU’), but this quickly spiraled out of control. Big thanks to [Xyriath](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath) for giving me some ideas and letting me borrow some names, [VerboseWordsmith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/VerboseWordsmith/pseuds/VerboseWordsmith) for her helpful commentary, and [giraffles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffles/pseuds/giraffles) for her constant enthusiasm. This is my first long work in quite some time, so feedback is appreciated!

The rain came down hard that night. In February, Xenotime is usually lucky to get a drizzle; tonight it fell unforgivingly, pounding on rooftops and awnings with all the wrath of a god angered. A god played.

The torrent easily drowned out the sound of footsteps, of an armored shoulder banging against the front door. Only when the door flew open in a shower of splinters did Belsio whip around to look. The sight in the doorway would never quite leave him: first the armor, tall and bronze, its harsh lines contrasting sharply with the trembling in its shoulders. Then, the boy cradled in those shaking arms, his face a deathly white beneath a shock of blond hair. Dark, wet blood stained his clothes and streaked his skin: the strips of cloth at his empty shoulder and knee sockets did little to stem its flow, makeshift bandages by a nine-year-old who didn’t know how to tie a tourniquet.

His heart caught in his throat, his stomach contracting, Belsio struggled to speak.

“What did you do?” he whispered. “What the hell did you two _do_?”

A soft, high voice answered, quaking with fear—and echoing, too, as if the little boy Belsio knew well wasn’t physically inside.

“Please,” Fletcher Tringham choked. “Please help us.”

* * *

Russell leans his hip into the wall by the payphone, absently twirling the cord around a gloved finger as he waits for Belsio’s response. Two and a half years, and the man remains as bad at talking on the phone as ever: Russell half-wonders if Belsio nodded and forgot Russell can’t hear it. How does he run a business like that? He must not get many automail orders over the phone, or else his niece makes the calls for him, Russell figures.

He’s about to clear his throat when Belsio finally speaks. “Did you find your Philosopher’s Stone, then?”

“Ah,” Russell says intelligently. “Well—we did, and we didn’t. The priest in Liore used a very powerful replica, an almost perfect copy of a real Stone, but the thing disintegrated before I could get my hands on it. The true Stone wouldn’t have done that, you see.”

“That sounds a lot more like ‘you didn’t,’” Belsio replies.

Russell imagines his face: his mouth a thin line, one eyebrow arched. He bristles. “We may have failed in Liore,” he says, the words sour in his mouth, “but this is as close as we’ve ever been, Belsio. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Belsio only hums. It might just be Russell, but it sounds vaguely judgmental. Russell’s temper rises a fraction.

“Look, we got a tip in Aquroya—”

“What were you doing in Aquroya?”

 _Avoiding Colonel Mustang._ That’s the truthful answer, if Russell is honest with himself, but he can hardly tell Belsio he was hiding from his supervisor like some guilty child. Yet, a passable lie for why he was in Aquroya won’t come to his lips. For whatever reason, Russell finds it incredibly difficult to lie to Belsio—that and the man’s constant pessimism make him fairly grating. Russell huffs.

“The _point_ is,” he says, sidestepping the question altogether, “we got a tip in Aquroya about an alchemist in Resembool trying to manufacture a Stone. We’re headed there now to see what we can find.”

Belsio hums again. This time, there’s no mistaking it: he definitely sounds dubious.

“Do you have a better idea?” Russell snaps, before he can stop himself.

Fletcher, studying a map, turns and gives Russell what’s clearly meant to be a sharp look. He’s going to hear it when he gets off the phone. _You shouldn’t yell at Belsio, Brother. He does so much for us! Okay, but you raised your voice and you sounded really mean, so that’s basically the same as yelling._ Still, Russell isn’t the one reacting passive-aggressively to Belsio’s attempts to do his job. He ignores Fletcher and puts a fist on his hip, tapping his automail foot impatiently.

“I have several,” Belsio says quietly, “but none that you want to hear.”

Russell can imagine. Stop chasing what Belsio believes is a fairytale. Resign from the military who’ll only continue to use him. Come home. Accept that there might not _be_ a way to restore his and Fletcher’s bodies. Make peace with it. It’s not possible, and Russell has told him this—he’ll have no peace until he exhausts every option, no matter how remote, dangerous, or degrading. At least Belsio acknowledges that he won’t be able to change Russell’s mind, even if he has no faith in him; it mollifies him some.

“Touché,” he murmurs.

Belsio clears his throat. “When you get done with—” a pause, and Russell imagines him making an encompassing hand gesture, “—I’ll want to take a look at your automail. I haven’t made any adjustments since the end of April.” (And a wonderful birthday _that_ had been.) “How does it feel?”

“Just fine.” Russell’s answer is automatic. “Honestly, Belsio, it’s hardly been three months. Do your _other_ patients need this much maintenance?”

“My _other_ patients don’t grow six inches every time I see them,” Belsio tells him. There’s finally a smile in his voice, albeit a wry one. “The last time you said your automail was ‘just fine,’ you came in limping because your left foot was nearly half an inch shorter than your right.”

“That was when I was thirteen.”

“Earlier this year, then.”

Russell twitches. His age—specifically, his youth—is a sore point for him; reminding him how young he is is low of Belsio, even if Russell walked right into the jab.

“Fletcher and I will scope out Resembool and then go back to East City. The Colonel will probably have me jump through some hoops, and then I’ll come to Xenotime,” he says. “Will that work?”

“If it works for you,” Belsio answers. “I’ve never tried to control what you do, Russell, and I won’t start now. Come if you think you need it. If not, by all means, don’t. Though Elisa would love to see you boys again.”

Of course she would. Russell feels himself smile, softening in spite of himself. “As soon as we can, Belsio. I’m on a leash, just remember that.”

Bitterness creeps into his voice. “Couldn’t forget it if I tried.”

A whistle blows in the distance. Russell covers the receiver with his hand and looks to Fletcher. “Is that us?”

“I think so,” Fletcher responds, adjusting the strap of their bag on his shoulder. Russell uncovers the receiver.

“That’s our train. I’ll let you know what happens in Resembool,” he says to Belsio. “Don’t work too hard.”

“And you.” Belsio hangs up.

Russell replaces the phone and turns to find Fletcher standing right in front of him.

“Don’t give me that look,” Russell says.

“What look?”

“Like you want to roll your eyes at me.” Russell reaches up and takes the bag from Fletcher, draping it over his own shoulder instead as he starts toward their train.

“People are allowed to care about you, Brother,” Fletcher tells him, matching his strides.

Russell shrugs. “Of course they are. Affection makes humans feel validated and humans need validation for adequate mental and social health, it’s scientifically proven. Belsio can care all he wants.”

“Then don’t get onto him for worrying about you.”

“Worrying and caring are two different things.”

“People worry _because_ they care. You certainly do.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Russell says. “Belsio doesn’t think I know what I’m doing. I _do_ ,” he says crossly, when Fletcher chooses not to respond.

The armor makes it hard to tell, but he thinks Fletcher sighs. “You always do,” he murmurs. If he means it sarcastically, Russell elects to ignore it.

* * *

A horse-drawn buggy takes Russell and Fletcher from Kaumafy’s train station to neighboring Resembool. Russell is spared asking the condition of Resembool’s own train station when they come upon it for themselves: rusty railroad tracks bent to uselessness lead the way to a wasteland of shattered concrete and gravel. A closer look yields that volunteers must have cleaned up what they could, shattered glass and wood splinters and other things, but the majority of the wreckage still stands, immovable. Even now, grass refuses to grow nearly twenty yards all around it. Their driver pointedly ignores the sight as if it’s too much to bear; Russell can’t take his eyes from it.

He remembers the bombing, though Fletcher can’t: too young. During the war, it was the only significant blow Ishval landed against Amestris. Resembool was and remains a small village, like many in the east, but it was well-known throughout the region for its wool. Much of this wool was exported to be made into military uniforms—hence why the Ishvalans targeted it, destroying the train station, some of town square, and many of the sheep farms with explosives.

For Russell, seven years seems like a long time. Yet the destruction he sees as they ride past might have happened yesterday. It might be a trick of the dying light, but he swears some of those ruins look like they’re still smoldering. As they near the town, the driver catches Russell staring and gives a heavy sigh.

“Not pretty, is it?”

“It’s terrible.” The grief in the man’s face looks so fresh that Russell finds it hard to meet his eyes. He wonders about the causalities of this attack, the fatalities. Part of him wishes he had a number, and part of him never wants to know. His mouth feels oddly dry. “I just … I would have thought … wouldn’t you have rebuilt it by now?”

The man answers with a humorless chuckle. “With what money? We’ve got half as much wool to sell as we did before. Even if we had more than that, we can hardly get it out with the closest train station fifteen miles north. And people’ve got families to feed. S’enough of a struggle to do that,” he says resignedly. He almost looks as if he wants to add something else, but after a pause, he returns his attention to the reins and says nothing for the rest of the trip.

“This is awful,” Fletcher whispers, as Russell finishes tipping their driver and joins him in the square. It seems that the townspeople were able to make more repairs here than at the train depot—several clumsy patch-jobs here and there, but no piles of debris—yet the atmosphere remains equally depressing. Most of the shops have already closed for the day and shut their lights off: the dusk looks dark as night.

“It is,” Russell agrees in a murmur. “Which explains why they want a Stone.”

The hint about Resembool had seemed random at first: were he less desperate for a lead, he might have dismissed it as a joke, one last laugh for a thief about to be put away. Now Russell understands. No ordinary village would tamper with the Philosopher’s Stone; legend calls it as dangerous as it is powerful, the object that annihilated Creta in a single night. Not worth the cost. Not worth the risk. But Resembool, unable to scrabble out of the hole the bombing put them in, has nothing left to lose. Desperate people do desperate things— _and we would know_ , Russell thinks, and heaves a sigh.

“You don’t think they’ve already made one, do you, Brother?” Fletcher asks, voice quiet and doubtful.

Russell shakes his head. “Most likely not.” Beyond the square, tiny cottages dot the bare plains that must have once been farms, which give way to dirt roads leading up to gently rolling hills. A river cradles the eastern edge of the town, visible in this dimness only because of starlight glinting off the surface of the water. _No, not starlight_ , Russell thinks, and peers closer. Atop the very highest of those hills sits a large house, still loudly lit, a spot of brightness in the dreary grayness of the main village. There, then. Russell’s breath quickens, and it’s with anticipation that he turns to his brother.

“Whatever alchemist is trying to create the Stone isn’t trying to hide themselves,” he says. “I say we pay them a visit.”

“You need food,” Fletcher answers. “And sleep.”

Trivial things; Russell waves them away with a flippant hand. But Fletcher insists. “Whoever’s working on the Stone will still be there tomorrow. You’ll want to be at your best when you meet them, right?” he says. Then, when Russell still looks dubious, “Please, for me?”

As if he has a choice, when Fletcher says it like that. He’s more inclined to sacrifice his well-being than see to it for his brother’s sake, but the fact remains that it’s difficult to deny him anything. Russell exhales sharply.

“Fine,” he says. “Tomorrow, then.”

* * *

Night falls, settling inky-black over a town eager to embrace its silence. The house on the hill is so white that it gleams in the moonlight; the brick wall around it is smooth and cool to the touch, even through Russell’s gloves. Urging Fletcher back, Russell peeks out from behind the corner: the guards at the front entrance seem unsuspecting, but no less intimidating. Russell draws back to face his very nervous brother.

“Fletcher,” he says, both a comfort and a warning.

“I don’t think we should be doing this.” The last word breaks off with a squeak as Russell presses a finger over his lips to hush him; Fletcher lowers his voice and continues. “Russell, this is _breaking and entering_ , this is _wrong_ —”

“And what _they’re_ doing isn’t?”

“Of course it is!” Fletcher catches himself just as Russell makes another harried quieting gesture. Fletcher’s pitch tends to be directly proportional to his level of anxiety—the more panicky he feels, the higher he goes. They can’t let their voices carry across the courtyard: those guards have a very _shoot first, ask questions later_ look about them. “I just—I don’t think—Brother, we could get in so much trouble for this, this is illegal!”

“So is impersonating government personnel,” Russell replies, voice even.

“Oh, only you’re government personnel, I’m no one—”

“Don’t say that about yourself.”

“I—I just—” There’s another pause while Fletcher wrings his hands and Russell waits for more objections. “You don’t know, these people might have a very good reason for using our names—”

“They had better.” Russell sets his jaw. “And I’d love to hear it.”

Before Fletcher can respond, Russell brings his hands together and presses them against the wall in a crackle of bright green transmutation.

Fletcher seems far from mollified, but he follows Russell into the tunnel he made without another word of protest. The passage leads them to a room even darker than outside, without moonlight or sodium lamps to brighten it: as his eyes adjust, Russell comes to realize that they’re in a library. Anger and indignation aside, Russell has a certain fondness for libraries, and he finds himself gravitating toward the nearest shelf like a flower to sunlight, scanning the titles on the spines with piqued interest.

Most of them, unsurprisingly, are books on alchemy. This Mugear, the manor’s owner, is not an alchemist: talk in the tavern before their untimely expulsion from the premises told him that much. This collection, then, must belong to the imposters. As much as he resents them already, adorning the word itself in his mind with all the colorful expletives Fletcher doesn’t need to hear, Russell can’t deny it as he casts a cursory glance down the length of the bookshelf: he’s impressed.

Unable to resist, he neatly slides a random book from its place, props it open in his automail hand, and begins to read.

“Ooh, that’s a good one.”

Russell freezes, clenching his hand so that the book shuts with a snap. Beside him, Fletcher’s armor rattles as he jumps, whipping around.

“Faulkner, right? It’s kind of hard to tell from over here, but it looks to be about the right place. He sure was something, that Faulkner, wasn’t he? _Very_ fascinating theories on irregular versus polygonal arrays. Love it. Of course, most of the traditionalists think he’s full of it—might have been the opium—but who likes traditionalists, anyway?”

Russell turns at the laugh, a carrying peal that runs its fingers up his spine. Its owner crosses the room and joins Russell and Fletcher by the bookcase. Russell gives the boy a quick one-over: he’s tall, though slightly shorter than Russell, with clever dark eyes and long, black hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wears simple clothes and a smile like he’s known Russell all his life. Russell squints with suspicion. “Who are you?”

The boy’s face wilts. He clicks his tongue; it almost sounds like a reprimand. “You must be from Central, with manners like that,” he says long-sufferingly, and plucks his book from Russell’s hand before Russell can react. “Or maybe the north. I’m from the south myself. My parents are from Xing, and they raised _me_ to say ‘hi’ to people before asking questions.”

He speaks so quickly and with such ease that Russell finds himself slightly off-kilter. As the boy inspects Faulkner’s book, as if trying to see if Russell damaged it, Russell struggles to regain his bearings.

“Are you the person pretending to be me?” he asks, in as intimidating a voice as he can muster.

The imposter doesn’t even look up from his book. “Yes.”

Russell blinks. He had expected denial, bashfulness, defensiveness, hostility—anything besides a frank, mild _yes_. The boy might have confirmed that it is in fact Tuesday. “Ex- _excuse_ me?”

“You’re excused,” the boy tells him, in that same mild voice. Then, when Russell only continues to sputter, at a rare loss for words, the boy looks up again and says, “You’re Russell Tringham, right? The Evergreen Alchemist, youngest State Alchemist in history? Champion of the people? Mannerless northerner?”

“That’s right,” Russell says, with a certain amount of pride, before he processes the last bit. He flushes irritably and hurries to correct himself. “I mean—no! First, I’m from _Xenotime_ , it’s in the east. Second and much more important, I _do_ have manners, thank you, just none to spare for posers like you!”

The imposter looks up from Faulkner’s theories with an exaggeratedly hurt expression, a hand over his heart. “Oh, ouch. That hurt me, Russell. That cut me deep.”

“You think I’m hurting you _now_? Just you wait—”

He doesn’t need Fletcher’s warning hand on his shoulder; Russell is already telling himself to rein it in a little. He cannot, absolutely _cannot_ , afford to lose his cool, especially with this boy baiting him so blatantly. He smiles serenely at Russell’s threat, as if Russell had just complimented his eyes.

“Listen here, imposter.” Now Russell’s voice is quiet, and dripping with ice. “What you’re doing here is against the law.”

The boy shrugs. “So is breaking and entering.”

There he goes again! With just a sentence and a twitch of his shoulders, Russell’s temper—normally quite in check—skyrockets. It’s no accident, either: the imposter’s face remains impassive, but one look in those dark eyes tells him he’s quite enjoying riling Russell up. Russell forces himself to remain calm.

“Look,” the imposter says, before Russell can reply, “I understand you’re angry. I would be, too. But know that I have a very good reason for being here.”

“A very good reason for stealing my name, you mean?” Russell responds.

“Stealing?” The boy sucks his teeth. “ _That’s_ a little harsh. I like to think of it as … borrowing.” He glances at the book in his hands. “Like a book,” he explains, and holds it up. “I use it while I need it—” he pretends to peruse the volume, “—and when I’m finished—” he shuts the book with a snap, “—I give it back, safe and sound.” He holds the book out to Russell.

But, before Russell can grab it, the imposter pulls it out of reach. “Unfortunately, I’m not quite done with it yet,” he says almost apologetically. “I will be soon, I promise. A few weeks, maybe? I can send you a letter. Or do you have a phone number?”

“I don’t want a damn letter!” Russell snaps. “I want you to go to the village and tell these people you’re a fake! My brother and I were thrown out of an inn because of you!”

The imposter puts a hand to his mouth in sympathy. “Oh, no. Not the one by the shoe shop, right?” he asks. “That’s a real shame. They have really good soup.”

Russell’s blood boils. His heart pounds like it’s vying for freedom. And this boy, this _poser_ , looks cool and collected as ever. He has no right! _Russell_ is supposed to be the calm one; this faker has no right to take that from him!

After a pause, the boy sighs. “Why don’t you go home, Russell?” he suggests. His voice takes on a serious note for the first time all night. “If you try and fight me for your name, you’ll only cause trouble here—and, in case you haven’t noticed, these people have trouble enough. ‘Alchemist, be thou for the people,’ right?” He replaces the book on the shelf. “The best way you can do that is leave.”

“I’m not leaving.” Russell steps determinedly into the imposter’s space, drawing himself up to his full height. “And if you think I can’t take you,” he says, in his quietest, most dangerous voice, “you’ve got another thing coming. I’ll drag you kicking and screaming into town square and make you confess your real name to the whole village.”

“Since you want to know so badly,” the boy says dryly, “my name is Ling. Ling Yao. Go ahead and tell everyone if you want,” he adds, when Russell’s face lights briefly with triumph. “No one will believe you. You’re no hero to them, Russell. You’re some overly imaginative child making up stories.”

There it is— _child_. Russell’s face heats with furious indignation. He’s too outraged to think of something witty; instead he spits, with acid in his voice, “I am _not_ a child, of _any_ kind. Understand?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ling says, a wicked smile spreading across his face. He sees he’s hit the bullseye. “Weren’t you born in nineteen hundred? Sometime in spring, if I remember correctly from your files. That makes you, let’s see—” He makes a show of counting on his fingers, while Russell seethes. “Fourteen, I think? Sounds like a child to me.”

“I’m not a child!” Russell shouts, unable to stop himself. Ling lets out a delighted laugh.

“Don’t have a tantrum on me now, Russell. I’ll have to send you to the corner. Little, baby Russell,” he says in a syrupy voice, while Russell’s chest heaves with anger, “you shouldn’t stay up past your bedtime like this, it clearly makes you cranky. Why don’t you go home and go night-night?”

The last word barely leaves his lips when Russell aims a roundhouse kick at his head. Ling, to Russell’s surprise, is prepared: he catches Russell’s automail leg in his hand and holds it tight, so that Russell wobbles stupidly in place trying to free himself. Ling’s fingers slide up the boot to Russell’s calf, feeling the steel beneath the fabric of his trousers.

“Automail, huh?” Suddenly, he drops the leg; Russell staggers and Fletcher hurriedly braces him. “Little Russell’s had some troubles, it seems.”

Shoving Fletcher back, Russell swings his fist at Ling’s face. Ling dodges the punch, and the next, and on the third he seizes Russell’s automail hand. His eyes widen slightly as he registers the metal: one automail limb on a teenager is uncommon, but two is practically unheard of. His moment of confusion allows Russell to wrest his arm free and finally land a blow in Ling’s side with his knee, sending Ling to the concrete.

Russell smirks, hands on his hips. “Don’t tell me you’re all bark and no bite.”

With a groan, Ling regains his feet and pushes his hair out of his face. Then, to Russell’s surprise—and annoyance—he laughs again. “I was starting to worry _you_ were,” he says cheerfully. “Now, then. Since you want a fight so badly—”

Then, with alarming speed, Ling darts forward, seizing Russell’s left arm in his hands. For as slight as he looks, Ling has a powerful grip: Russell struggles uselessly before Ling swings him face-first into the stone wall by the bookshelf. He’s too shocked to turn his head, and his reward is a searing pain in his nose, made worse by Ling pinning him in place with an elbow in his back. Russell coughs, and blood dribbles down his face.

“You were saying?” Ling says, slightly out of breath, but still infuriatingly casual.

Russell forces out a rough laugh. “No class taught you to fight like this,” he responds, “which means I’m not the only one who’s had troubles. So, what have _you_ been up to, Ling? You have me curious now.”

“That’s my business,” Ling tells him. Russell jerks, and with his other hand, Ling shoves at his shoulder to hold him still. The feel of his fingers at the join of flesh and automail makes Russell shudder; a few choice jabs and Ling could do incredible damage to his whole right side. Does he realize this, realize how totally he has Russell at his mercy? Maybe so, because after Ling smirks and Russell snarls, Ling suddenly releases him and takes a few steps back. He stretches, like a dark, lazy cat; Russell could run at him now, but he chooses instead to catch his breath, swiping at his bloody nose with his sleeve.

Fletcher, pressed into a nearby corner to get away from the fighting, runs up to him then. “Brother, are you all right?” he gasps.

“I’m fine,” Russell says shortly, and winces as he tastes blood, sharp and metallic in his mouth. Ling chuckles and makes a gesture to his own face with a finger.

“You’ve got a little something here,” he tells him.

“You,” Russell snarls, “are _infuriating_.”

“So I’ve heard. So, have you had enough yet?” Ling asks. “You know, you really ought to go home and let Mommy have a look at your face.”

He readies himself as Russell pulls a fist back, as if to try another punch. Then, Russell abruptly changes tactic: he claps his hands before Ling can react and slams his palms to the concrete. Spires erupt from the ground—they shoot outward, twisting and curving in the air toward Ling, and Russell watches with satisfaction as Ling runs and ducks behind another bookcase to avoid them.

“No transmutation circle!” Ling calls from behind the shelf. “I’d thought that was just a rumor. Impressive!”

Russell comes around the corner in time to see Ling return to his feet. Grinning, Ling mimics Russell’s actions from just now, clapping his hands and touching the ground. Russell sees no transmutation circle drawn on him, no piece of jewelry that might have one inscribed, so he’s caught completely off-guard when Ling transmutes a spike from the concrete—Fletcher appears, hooks an arm around Russell’s waist, and yanks him to the ground, covering him with his armor.

“Did you see that?” Fletcher gasps, just as Russell says, “What the hell?” Fletcher helps him to his feet as Ling approaches, looking unbearably smug. Russell stares at him in blank shock for several moments.

“How are you able to transmute without a circle?” he demands. Of course Ling doesn’t answer; he just casts an idle look around, smiling peacefully. Then Russell understands. He freezes in place, eyes widening and lips parting. His mouth feels very dry; his throat is too tight to speak. He forces himself to swallow, and then says, in a strangled voice, “You don’t—you can’t have—”

Ling gives a peal of laughter. One slim hand reaches into his front pocket, and from it he pulls a small red shard about the size of Russell’s little finger. It looks remarkably fragile, and shimmers red-gold even in this dimness. Russell stares at it, unable to believe his eyes. Ling laughs again.

“The Philosopher’s Stone?” Fletcher whispers. “You’ve already created it?”

“That’s giving me a little too much credit,” Ling concedes, gazing casually at the shard between his thumb and index finger like it’s a spare cen he found on the sidewalk. Russell feels his hands start to shake. He can hardly _breathe_ , for wanting that shard so much. “This is just a prototype. A very good prototype, clearly, but it’s not as powerful as a real Stone. All in good time.” He pockets it again.

Russell stands. “Give that to me,” he says, in a soft, wavering voice. It’s hard to inject any force into it: he feels overcome with his need for that Stone, with the thought that two and a half years’ struggle might soon be over. “Now.”

Ling taps a finger against his chin, pretending to mull it over. Then, with a wide smile, he says, very simply, “No.”

The trembling spreads to Russell’s shoulders, but now it’s fury that makes him shake. “If you don’t give that to me right now,” he says, “I swear I’ll—I’ll—”

“Stammer at me?”

“ _Will you shut up?_ God!”

At Russell’s right, Fletcher rises and puts a hand on Russell’s shoulder. Russell thinks it a quelling gesture, but then Fletcher meets his eyes, and Russell understands. He huffs, folding his arms; Ling laughs at his resigned expression. Then, before Ling can prepare, Fletcher runs at him.

The clanking of bronze disguises another, quicker set of footsteps. Fletcher and Ling are within inches of each other when a small figure appears from nowhere: it vaults at Fletcher, both feet connecting with his shoulder, and Fletcher shrieks and topples to the ground. The boy, Russell thinks, straightens, still standing on Fletcher’s back. For the first time, Ling actually looks startled.

“What are you doing here?” he demands. “I told you to keep an eye on Mugear!”

“You looked like you needed the help,” the boy shoots back, stepping off Fletcher’s armor to face Ling. He’s quite a bit smaller, with wide dark eyes and a round face. Russell can just see black hair under his hat. This must be Ling’s brother, then: the boy pretending to be Fletcher.

“What I _needed_ you to do is make sure Mugear doesn’t show up here and realize what’s going on,” Ling says tersely. “Are you trying to ruin everything, Mei?”

Wait, Mei? Russell takes a closer look. Sure enough, beneath the cap, he sees two long braids spilling out over her shoulders; feeling them, the girl hurriedly tries to tuck them back in.

“ _I’m_ not the one raising hell in here like the whole mansion can’t hear you!” she snaps as she flushes angrily. “How stupid do you think Mugear is? You said two minutes, Ling, it’s nearly between twenty! What, have you been prancing around here the whole time?”

“I do not _prance_ ,” Ling sniffs.

Mei makes a noise of frustration. “Just get them out of here!”

“If I may interrupt,” Russell says, glowering at the bickering siblings as he hauls Fletcher to his feet, “we aren’t leaving. We aren’t done here.”

“Yes, you are,” Ling says.

Russell’s retort is drowned out by the shriek of a guard’s whistle. The four of them turn in a panic to the door just as a voice, alarmingly near, calls out, “Mister Tringham! Are you all right? What’s going on in there?”

“Brother,” Fletcher whispers, “we should go.”

The very thought makes Russell seethe, but Fletcher has a point: the chances that they’ll be able to convince this Mugear of the truth are very slim. Better now to escape and return later to set things right. Fletcher hurries over to their tunnel, but before Russell can follow, Ling suddenly appears in his space, fingers curled in the front of Russell’s shirt. The smile is gone. Instead, he wears a glare so fierce that Russell can’t help but startle. “Do not,” he snarls, “come back here.”

He releases Russell with a shove. Without another word, Ling turns and stalks out of the library, beckoning Mei to follow with a hand. Still, she lingers; Russell swears her eyes follow them as he and Fletcher disappear the way they came.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you sure you’re all right, Brother?” Fletcher asks, for maybe the sixth time.

Russell appreciates his concern, really. But he also wishes Fletcher would let him sleep. It’s hard enough to find a comfortable position on the patch of ground they’ve appointed as their bed: the grass is springy, but the dirt beneath it is unexpectedly compact and makes Russell’s automail shoulder ache. His face hurts, too; he hopes his nose isn’t broken.

“I’m fine,” Russell answers. He rests his cheek on his folded arms.

“That imposter looked like a very good fighter.”

“He wasn’t _that_ good,” Russell mutters, as every bruise Ling gave him smarts.

“And a pretty good alchemist, too,” Fletcher says.

Russell snorts, which also hurts. “Please. He had that prototype Philosopher’s Stone. None of that was his own skill or talent. He’s a third-rate alchemist who happened to get a few lucky hits in. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” The helmet makes it hard to tell, but he thinks Fletcher’s gaze settles on his banged-up face. But, after a moment, Fletcher changes the topic. “What did you think of the girl? Mei?”

“We saw her for all of two minutes,” Russell says, slightly perplexed at the question. “I have no opinion of her.”

“She didn’t seem to get along with her brother very well.”

“Jerk like that, it’s no wonder,” Russell says irritably.

“Or maybe they’re not even brother and sister. They didn’t look very much alike to me,” Fletcher continues.

Russell considers this. “They had the same eyes,” he muses. “Same hair color. But not much else. It might be that they’re cousins or something, or maybe only half-related. _I_ don’t particularly care.”

He resettles his cheek on his folded arms, shutting his eyes. Fletcher grows quiet. Then, just before Russell finally dozes off, Fletcher says softly, “And they had a Stone.”

“A prototype,” Russell reminds him in a murmur.

“Still. It’s more than we have.”

That stings. Russell sits up and gives him a look. “Well, we’re going back tomorrow,” he says firmly. “We’re going to take a good look at their research, and then what they have, we’ll have. And then we’re going to expose them as the frauds they are to the whole town.” He enjoys the mental image he has of the scenario, particularly the shocked, humiliated expression on Ling’s face. “Everything will work out just fine.”

“I hope so,” Fletcher mumbles.

Russell rolls over, squirms for a moment to find the least painful position, and closes his eyes to sleep. Suddenly, he hears a hiss, followed immediately by the clink of metal on metal. Russell hurriedly sits up and finds a knife piercing Fletcher’s armor.

“What in hell—?”

Light washes over them, making Russell squint and duck reflexively. As his eyes adjust, he sees where the knife came from: a girl near his own age stands with a handful in each fist, a flashlight held between her teeth. Her expression is fierce, and Russell wrenches the knife from Fletcher’s shoulder and holds it defensively; immediately, she throws another, and it catches his sleeve and pins his hand to the dirt. She hooks a finger around her flashlight to free her mouth. “This is private property,” she snarls. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

“I was _trying_ to sleep,” Russell responds. “If I were succeeding then, I’m certainly not now.”

A quick assessment of the situation tells him there’s no point in freeing the knife: no sooner than he does will she throw another, at his sleeve again if he’s lucky, before he can think of lunging at her. Exhaustion makes him worry about the prospect a lot less than he should.

“We didn’t know this was private property, we didn’t see a fence,” Fletcher says quickly. “We’re really sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you up or anything. We’ll go now.”

“Wait,” the girl says, cutting across Fletcher’s babbling. She considers them, her dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. Then, something dawns on her, and her stance relaxes a fraction. “You’re them, then. The blond boy and the armored man pretending to be the Tringham brothers.”

“ _We_ aren’t the ones pretending,” Russell says tersely, aggravated both at being accused of stealing his own identity and that he gets called a boy while Fletcher, all of twelve years old, gets called a man. “The pair in Mugear’s mansion are the real identity thieves. The one claiming to be my brother isn’t even a boy, she’s a little girl.”

The girl isn’t convinced. “Sure,” she says, long and sarcastic. Russell almost expects her to put a knife in his eye right then. But, after a moment, she says, a little less suspiciously, “So you were thrown out of the inn and you’re just going to sleep outside?”

“Yes,” Russell replies, his voice heavy. “Now, if you’ve decided you’re not going to skewer us, I’d rather you leave us to it. We’re exhausted. We really didn’t intend to trespass and will gladly leave if you’d rather.”

The girl doesn’t answer at first, only continuing to size them up with the knives still in her hands. Finally, just as Russell is about to get up and walk away, heedless of the consequences, she heaves a loud sigh and stows the throwing knives in the pocket of her overalls. “Sleeping out here is stupid,” she says shortly. “And dangerous. My grandfather and I have an extra room in our house. You two can stay there.”

Russell’s dislike of charity battles with the great temptation of sleeping in a bed. Fletcher makes the decision for him. “That’s so kind of you!” he says gratefully. “We would love to, thank you so much, really—”

She quiets him with an impatient wave of her hand. “Well, follow me, then, and don’t make a lot of noise. My grandfather should still be asleep.”

Fletcher helps Russell remove the knife from his shirtsleeve and get to his feet. The girl turns, beckoning them to follow as she lights the way with her flashlight. Russell matches her strides.

“So you believe us, then?” he says quietly. “You believe we’re not lying?”

“I believe you’re not dangerous,” she replies, avoiding his question, “and that’s enough. I hope I’m right. If you try and hurt my grandfather—” Rather than finish her threat, she puts her free hand in the front pocket of her overalls, where the knives are. Russell gives a sharp exhale.

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” he says flatly, swallowing bitter disappointment.

* * *

He sleeps unusually well, all things considered, but wakes up to pain. In his shoulder and thigh, in his back, in his arms and legs, in his face. Russell slithers from the spare bed onto the floor, moaning his misery, and sets his clothes to rights before he pads into the adjacent kitchen. Fletcher sits at the table, peeling potatoes with a small knife at a fast and skilled pace. As Russell sinks into the chair opposite him, the back door opens, admitting their benefactor carrying a woven basket of dirty string beans.

“Well, you slept a while,” she says in lieu of a greeting, as she takes her basket to the sink. Russell thinks to snort, remembers how much it would hurt, and rolls his eyes instead.

“You have dirt on your nose,” he tells her.

“Your nose is _broken_ ,” she tosses back. Still, as she starts washing the vegetables, he sees her try to subtly splash her face with water. She doesn’t get the dirt.

“Lan Fan has a point,” Fletcher says, looking at Russell with concern. “You should put some ice on it.”

“I’ll be fine,” Russell answers.

“You will, if you listen to Fletcher instead of being stupidly stubborn,” Lan Fan says.

“How long have you two been on a first-name basis?” Russell asks with some irritation. “Did you become best friends while I was asleep?” He wouldn’t put it past his brother: Fletcher can make friends with anybody, even a girl who threw a knife at him just hours ago.

Lan Fan fills a glass at the sink, sets it on the counter, and takes a piece of chalk from her pocket. Still bleary from sleep, Russell doesn’t make sense of what she’s doing until he sees a light: an array glows beneath the glass of water, and when it dims, the water is frozen solid. Lan Fan taps the bottom of the glass so that the block of ice slides onto a dishtowel, which she then wraps up and hands to Russell.

“Put that on your face. It’ll stop the swelling,” she instructs him.

“You’re an alchemist!” he says in surprise.

She looks him straight in the eyes. “No,” she deadpans.

“They have a garden out back, Brother, it’s amazing,” Fletcher says happily. “You should really go look at it. The soil out here’s already really good, Belsio would be so jealous, and then Lan Fan uses alchemy to adjust the pH as needed and things like that. She can even make certain things grow if they’re struggling on their own. She has a whole journal full of arrays she uses—actually, thinking of it now, some of them look really similar to yours.”

“Well, yes, some of them _were_ inspired by the Evergreen Alchemist,” Lan Fan concedes, even as she blushes slightly at the praise.

“So you believe that’s me?” Russell asks bluntly.

Fletcher shifts a little, apparently uncomfortable. Lan Fan chews thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek.

“I don’t know what I believe,” she says after a moment. “I can’t imagine why anyone would steal your identities, or how they’ve been able to keep it up for so long; the Tringham brothers have been here for a few weeks. But then I also don’t know why you two would insist that’s who you were when that’s only causing you trouble. If you’re not the Tringhams, then you must have a damn good reason for saying you are, and I can respect that. And if you _are_ —well, there’s obviously somewhere that everyone believes it. So I don’t know why you’d stick around here.”

“We heard there are alchemists here trying to create a Philosopher’s Stone,” Russell tells her. “That’s what we’re after.”

“You and everyone else,” Lan Fan mutters darkly. She goes back to washing her beans.

Russell and Fletcher exchange a look. “What do you mean by that?” Russell asks, carefully.

“Exactly what I said,” Lan Fan huffs. “Everyone here thinks the Philosopher’s Stone is going to be this magic solution to all their problems. No one wants to actually take responsibility and make things better for themselves—they’ve all been sitting back and waiting on the Stone for as long as I can remember, ever since those first rumors about gold in the river—”

“Gold in the river?” Fletcher repeats in surprise, while Russell raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t know there was gold in the river. You mean the one just outside of town?”

“Yeah, that one. But that’s just it!” Lan Fan says, turning away from the sink to face them. She looks exasperated. “There’s no gold in that river! There was _never_ gold in that river. It was just some stupid rumor, you know? Someone probably saw a weird-looking rock or a piece of jewelry that got dropped and mistook it for gold, or else they thought it’d be a funny prank. I don’t know which. But there wasn’t ever any gold in that river. It’s just a story for desperate people to cling to—just like the Stone.”

“Maybe they’re hoping the Philosopher’s Stone will help them _find_ gold?” Fletcher suggests.

“No,” Russell murmurs, as he realizes it. “They want to spread the rumor so they can use the Philosopher’s Stone to _synthesize_ gold, and then pretend it came from the river to cover up the fact that they’re breaking the law.” He huffs out a laugh. “That’s ridiculous. No one will believe that.”

“No one will believe what?” a voice calls from the door. Russell turns and sees an elderly man step over the threshold, propping his cane against the wall as he crosses over to the little kitchen. Lan Fan smiles, looking warmer than Russell has seen her yet.

“Afternoon, Grandfather,” she says.

“Brother, that’s Fu,” Fletcher tells Russell in an undertone, adding needlessly, “Lan Fan’s grandfather.”

But Russell is more concerned with the first part of her statement. “Afternoon?” he repeats, wide-eyed. He hadn’t meant to sleep that long. “What time is it?”

“Just after one o’clock,” Fu tells him, settling into a chair. He throws a newspaper onto the table. “You were out cold, boy. If it weren’t for the snoring, I’d have thought you’d slipped into a coma.”

“I don’t snore,” Russell says tersely, while Fletcher giggles mutinously.

“These two were asking about Resembool. How they want to make gold and say it came from the river to cover themselves. Finally, someone else agrees it’s stupid,” Lan Fan explains.

Fu grunts his agreement. “You’re damn right it is. Because they’ll definitely be able to keep their little Philosopher’s Stone a secret. Bah. The military will get wind of it soon enough, and then we’ll all catch hell.” He flips open his paper and starts to read. Evidently, though, there’s nothing to claim his interest, because he glances back up, meets Russell’s gaze, and asks, bluntly, “What happened to your face, boy? You look awful.”

The resemblance to his granddaughter is astounding. Russell covers his nose with Lan Fan’s compress.

“Yeah, what _did_ happen to your face?” Lan Fan says. “I forgot to ask.”

Before Russell can think of an explanation, Fu says, “No.”

“What?” Fletcher asks worriedly.

Fu’s mustache makes it hard to parse his expression. He might look furious, but he might look delighted. “Tell me you aren’t the two who broke into Mugear’s mansion last night,” he says.

“We didn’t!” Fletcher says immediately, in a shrill voice of denial that might as well be a confession. Russell sighs to himself. He has a thing or two to teach his brother about lying.

Fu laughs; it sounds like a bark. “So! You got in and got out right under the bastard’s nose, did you?”

There’s no mistaking it now: he’s praising them. Russell can’t help a smile. “He never even knew we were there.”

“Ha! And the guards?”

“Please. I’ve met toddlers who were more observant,” Russell scoffs, to continued guffaws. Fu reaches out and claps him on the shoulder.

“Well, good for you, kid. It serves that bastard right. Oh, I’d love to see the look on his face right about now.” Fu returns his attention to his newspaper, still chortling to himself.

On Russell’s right, Fletcher titters irritably. He has a certain respect for rules that Russell lacks; if he already dislikes that they trespassed at the mansion, being commended for it aggravates him outright. Still, whatever protest he might have, he keeps it to himself. “I don’t understand,” he says, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Why do you seem to dislike Mister Mugear so much? Brother and I were in an inn yesterday, and all we heard about him is that he’s funding a project to make a Philosopher’s Stone and help Resembool get back on its feet again. He sounds like a really good man!”

Fu’s demeanor changes in an instant. Before jovial, if a little gruff, Fletcher’s words turn him dark and bitter; he scowls at his newspaper like it just insulted his family ten generations forward and back. Yet, it’s Lan Fan who speaks first, prefacing her words with a harsh laugh that sounds remarkably like her grandfather’s.

“Oh, sure, he’s a ‘good man,’ all right,” she says. “The kind of ‘good man’ who smiles to your face and then stabs you in the back for a few cens, and then goes and spends the night in some dirty brothel using the money he earned.”

“Can we not talk about brothels in front of my twelve-year-old brother?” Russell asks.

“I know what a brothel is,” Fletcher tells him.

A major failing on Russell’s part, then. Fu clears his throat, recapturing their attention. “Well, Mugear may be a greedy, conniving liar who cares for nothing and no one but himself and his money,” he says, “but he’s also one hell of an actor, and he has all these people convinced he only has their best interests at heart. Tell me, kid, you say he’s funding a Philosopher’s Stone project? Whose money do you think he’s _using_ to fund that project? Here’s a hint: it sure isn’t his.”

“I—I guess the townspeople’s?” Fletcher answers.

“Exactly. Year after year after year. He’s been hiring scientists to help him make a Stone for almost five years now. A dozen alchemists must have gone through those doors, and we haven’t seen so much as a Philosopher’s Pebble,” Fu says.

Russell immediately thinks of the red shard Ling had. A prototype, he’d called it. Have Ling and his sister really succeeded where a dozen alchemists before them have failed? The thought should amaze him, but instead it irritates him; he feels distinctly one-upped.

“The Philosopher’s Stone isn’t exactly half a cup of flour, half a cup of water, a tablespoon of sugar, and then let sit for twenty minutes,” he says flatly. “It’s the world’s most powerful alchemic augmenter. Records of it are limited to mere legends. I _highly_ doubt any wannabe alchemists like the two he’s employing now could ever _hope_ to succeed in creating one.”

He convinces himself of it as he says it: yes, there _must_ be another explanation for Ling’s ability to perform alchemy without a transmutation circle. There’s no way a rat like him managed to produce an actual Stone, prototype or not. Russell rationalizes that the rock he had could have easily been from some ring or bracelet—maybe Ling loots jewelry stores, too, he thinks with malice. As for the circle, Russell doesn’t know for sure that Ling didn’t use one, only that he didn’t _see_ one. Ling might have simply drawn it on his back or chest, where his shirt would hide it from Russell’s eyes. Russell imagines exposing it, to Ling’s horror and humiliation, and reveling in the fact that Ling can only hope to be at his level of skill and talent. Then he immediately pushes the thought away altogether: his brain, in an unexpected and cruel act of treachery, wants to take the mental image of Ling without his shirt and run home with it.

Vaguely flustered, Russell returns to the topic at hand. “You two certainly seem to have the measure of Mugear,” he tells Fu and Lan Fan, arching an eyebrow. “No one else shares your skepticism; the whole town thinks he’s a Samaritan. What makes you so sure he’s lying? And whatever convinced you, why haven’t you shared it with everyone else, instead of letting Mugear string them along?”

“You think we haven’t tried to tell them?” Lan Fan snaps, her face an indignant pink. “Time and time again? Of course we have! It’s that snake’s fault no one will believe us!”

“What?” Fletcher says, looking from her to Fu. “Why won’t anyone believe you?”

Fu heaves a long, irate sigh. “About a year ago, my granddaughter and I worked for Mugear. No, not as alchemists, not on his Stone,” he says, when both Russell and Fletcher react in surprise. “As guards. I was a bodyguard in my youth, and Lan Fan is a born fighter. Mugear is also as paranoid as he is pompous and doesn’t need half the protection he has. It was fairly simple, well-paying work.”

“Until you realized what a scumbag your employer was,” Russell fills in. “Right?”

Fu grunts. “Well, it didn’t take long. Mugear wants a Stone, all right, but he won’t use the gold he makes with it to do anything but line his own pockets, and he’s happy to bleed these people dry until he achieves his goal. We tried to spread it around as quietly as we could—we didn’t want him to know we had caught on, you see; you get your best information from the inside, after all. But, for an arrogant pig, he’s certainly observant, and he has his diehards, greedy pricks just like him who are hoping for a cut of the cash. He found us out. Fired us. Snake that he is, I suppose we’re lucky he didn’t try anything else.”

“But that’s not all,” Lan Fan says. A muscle twitches in her cheek. “He knew if he just fired us, we’d just run and tell everyone his dirty laundry. And we tried, yeah. But we’d barely convinced anyone when _he_ started telling everyone why he had to ‘let us go.’ He said we’d been stealing from him.” She curls her hands into fists; she looks on the verge of angry tears, bright-eyed and red-faced. “Oh, he’d _tried_ to give us _so_ many chances, supposedly, tried to work things out, but when we kept taking advantage of his ‘generosity’—” with jerky movements, she puts air quotes around the word, “—he had _no choice_ but to fire us, and he was _kind_ enough not to get the police involved. The lying bastard. And everyone just ate it out of his goddamn hand. ‘That’s what you get for hiring immigrants,’ they said.” A strangled noise escapes her, and she crosses over to the table and drops into a chair, folding her arms tightly. Fu, looking more resigned than angry, puts a hand on her shoulder.

“And that was it,” he says. “There went our credibility. Forget anyone believing our ‘conspiracy’—no one would even give us any work. There are some shops that still won’t even service us, even now.”

“You can’t be serious,” Russell says in disbelief. “They really had that extreme a reaction to a rumor?”

“I don’t know, Brother,” Fletcher says thoughtfully. “Gossip can be pretty powerful. And a small, struggling town like this—it’s not like they have much else to do for fun than talk about each other. I’m so sorry that happened,” he tells Fu and Lan Fan, his voice cracking with sympathy.

Russell only shakes his head. “There has to be something else. I just can’t believe that everyone believed him so readily, so— _immediately_. Even without knowing you two, and you both seem like honest enough people to me,” he says, “Mugear’s story is just so … suspicious. I mean, look at the facts here. Fu, you said Mugear has been working on this project for _five years_ without any results? All right, let’s say for the sake of argument that for some ridiculous reason, no one bats an eye at that. Okay. But then he fires the pair of you, and comes out with possibly the fakest story I’ve ever heard to justify it. Meanwhile you two have a very plausible explanation for why, for all of Mugear’s supposed ‘hard work,’ this town remains in the shitter—don’t repeat that, Fletcher—and no one so much as even considers it might be true?” Russell realizes he’s raised his voice considerably, and he pauses to take a steadying breath. “Maybe some people are that gullible, or that desperate,” he continues, more evenly. “But not everyone. Not an entire village. A blatant disregard for rational thinking on a scale that large, it’s—it’s—”

“And why can’t everyone be that desperate?” Fu breaks in, sounding pensive. “The money the government gave the town after the bombing ran out in half a year. We’re nearly at seven now, and for them, things are as bad as ever, with no hope in sight but for Mugear’s Stone. They want to—maybe _need_ to—believe that change is just around the corner.”

“So it’s willful ignorance.” Russell says it coldly. “Which means the only people they can blame for their continuing struggle are themselves. They need to take matters into their own hands.”

He suddenly blanches. The words, spoken thoughtlessly, produce a vivid memory of an eight-year-old Fletcher, weeping at their mother’s freshly-dug grave. Russell hadn’t been crying; grief can never make him cry, only shame can, or fury. Grief, by contrast, burns him out, like scorching the inside of a wooden barrel. On the outside, fine. On the inside, black and crumbling, and completely, utterly empty. At ten years old, he lacked the words to describe this emptiness, and so he’d just hidden his face for most of the funeral so that no one would judge his dry eyes.

There were two lights in this darkness. One was the small person at Russell’s feet, looking smaller than ever with Russell’s coat around his shoulders, shaking with wracking sobs. The other was a thought, an idea. It offered just enough hope to sustain him, and he clung to it like a lifeline.

“ _We won’t let this destroy us, Fletcher._ ” A large pair of blue eyes looked up at him, still shining with tears. Russell misses those eyes, misses them so much it aches. “ _We can’t. We’re brave and we’re smart. We have to take things into our own hands._ ”

“ _How?_ ”

Russell remembers smiling. He remembers reaching out a hand, maybe to stroke Fletcher’s hair, or to wipe some of the tears from his face. Then, growing solemn, he said, “ _We’re going to bring her back._ ”

In the present, Russell blows out a breath. He presses his fingertips to the spot above his left eyebrow, hoping to soothe the headache beginning there.

“What can they even do?” Fletcher asks. “They made all their money exporting wool. I know it’s wrong of them to sit and wait for a Philosopher’s Stone, but they really are stuck here.”

“Not as stuck as they want to believe,” Lan Fan responds. She gestures out the back door, where the garden must be.

“I traveled all over Xing guarding nobles when I was young,” Fu says. “I kept traveling as I got older. I explored Xing from top to bottom, I spent a few years in Xerxes, and I finally came here. It took another ten years or so to settle in this village in particular. I can tell you: the soil here is better than any I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks to Mugear, we couldn’t get any work anywhere in town,” Lan Fan says. “Still can’t, probably. At first we thought we’d have to leave, or else starve. But we already had a little flower garden out back; it was my mother’s before she passed. Grandfather realized if we could grow flowers, we could grow fruits and vegetables, too. To eat, to sell, to trade. We get along fine, and that’s with everyone selling us short because they don’t like us. If we can do it, so can they. But they have no idea what’s under their feet.”

“Oh, they know. But it’s too much work for them.” Fu shakes his head. “They’d rather hold out hope for the Stone, too caught up in themselves to accept that Mugear just isn’t going to deliver.” With a massive sigh, he hauls himself to his feet. “How long do you two plan to stick around?” he asks. “We get by fine with just the two of us, but we can’t afford to feed both of you for more than a few days.”

“I don’t need to eat,” Fletcher says quickly.

“Nor do I.” Russell stands. “We aren’t asking you to keep us. We appreciate the hospitality and will repay you however you see fit, but there’s no need for us to bother you another night. You’ve done enough already.”

“Oh, sit down, boy,” Fu tells him. “It was just a question. From the sound of it, you and your brother are about as popular as we are right now, so I doubt you’ll be able find a bed anywhere in the village. I’d rather you sleep in my house than in my lettuces.”

“You’re too kind, sir,” Fletcher says, bowing his head respectfully. “We’ll only be another night or two, promise, and we can pay for our own food, don’t worry about that.”

Fu shrugs. “If you insist.”

“Wait for me, Grandfather,” Lan Fan says, quickly crossing to him to offer a steadying arm. Russell has the sudden realization that Fu couldn’t have been limping a year ago if he worked as a guard, puts it together with Lan Fan’s insistence on accompanying him to the market, and wonders, with sickening dread, what might have happened.

Fletcher quickly finishes with the potatoes, cleaning and cutting them supposedly as instructed before putting them in a pot of water. While he tidies up after himself, Russell puts his head in his hands, thinking hard. Fletcher notices soon enough.

“What are you thinking, Brother?” he asks.

Russell exhales sharply. “I’m thinking that something doesn’t add up,” he says.

“What do you mean? Everything they said about Resembool made perfect sense to me,” Fletcher replies. He sits back down next to Russell at the table; at the same time, Russell gets up to pace the length of the small kitchen.

“That’s just it. Everything they said made sense, and we have no reason not to believe them. It’s the imposters that are baffling me.”

“Ling and Mei?”

Russell grunts in acknowledgement, believing it too generous to refer to their identity thieves by their actual names. “Why are they here? How do they factor into this?”

“They’re trying to make a Philosopher’s Stone, right?” Fletcher says.

“Yes, but _why_? Why would they put themselves at risk like this? Impersonating government personnel is a serious crime; they could spend a very long time in prison for it. They must have very powerful motivation for wanting to complete that Stone, powerful enough that it would be worth the risk to them.” Russell rakes a hand through his hair, sighing his frustration.

“Well, we know Mister Mugear is only pretending to want to help Resembool,” Fletcher says thoughtfully. “But maybe Ling and Mei _really_ want to help Resembool, and they took our names so they could get in his lab to do it. He probably wouldn’t have hired kids unless they had some credibility, and you’re the best alchemist of your generation.”

Russell acknowledges the compliment with a fleeting smile, but it disappears as he ponders this theory. “What reason do they have to want to help Resembool?” he says. “They can’t be from here, or even have close family here, or else everyone would know who they are—or, rather, who they’re not. So they must come from elsewhere. And if that’s the case, why would this place matter to them?”

“They could have just heard the town was still struggling and wanted to help,” Fletcher suggests.

“I don’t think so,” Russell says. “Again, it’s too risky. They have too much at stake to be motivated by simple altruism. No one would put this much on the line just to help people.” He pauses, while Fletcher looks down at his hands. After a moment, Russell manages another small smile; he crosses over and touches Fletcher’s arm. “Well, no one except you, maybe,” he amends. “I keep saying that if everyone were half as nice as you, this world would be a much better place.”

“You’re nice, too, Brother,” Fletcher tells him. “At least when you want to be.”

When he has something to gain from it, then, which Russell thinks negates his supposed niceness altogether. It doesn’t matter; he abandoned kindness when he started this journey, when he struck a match and watched flames eat up his childhood home and then carved the date into a silver watch that doubles as a leash.

To Fletcher, he only says, “Well, I’m glad someone thinks so.” He resumes walking up and down. “Unfortunately, whether or not those imposters are actually angels in disguise isn’t really something I want to take a chance on. Some people may do bad to do more good in exchange, but too often, they do bad simply to do more bad.” He sighs. “We need to get the measure of these people.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Easy.” Russell finally stops his pacing and turns to face his brother. “We ask. You’re the one who said these people have nothing better to do but talk.”

“But—we can’t!” Fletcher tells him, sounding stricken. “These people don’t like us! They threw us out of an inn; what makes you think they’ll tell us anything?”

“Taken care of.” Russell leaves Fletcher in the kitchen for a brief moment so he can rummage through their bag in their borrowed room. After a moment, he finds a jacket with a hood; he pulls it on, draws the hood low over his forehead, and tucks his bangs behind his ear. There are certain advantages to wearing his hair so that it covers half his face—just brushing it aside like this makes him look different enough that a stranger might not recognize him. He reenters the kitchen.

“And voila,” he says, turning on the spot. When he faces Fletcher again, he puts on a scornful voice. “‘Did you hear about those charlatans pretending to be the Tringham brothers? Pathetic. If I were them, I would have torn those phonies a new one, yet apparently the real Tringhams just let them go! They must be very kind. What do you think?’”

“I think someone’s going to wonder why you’re wearing a coat and gloves in June,” Fletcher answers.

Russell can’t help but wilt a little. “Maybe I’m sick or something. I don’t know. Your lack of faith is very disheartening, Fletcher.”

“I’m just saying, please be careful, Brother,” he tells him. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Or heatstroke.”

“Of course not.” When Fletcher makes to stand, Russell makes a quelling gesture. “It … probably isn’t a good idea for you to come with me,” he says carefully, trying to spare Fletcher’s feelings as much as he can. “Through no fault of your own, you’re very easily recognizable.” Fletcher is also one of the worst liars on this side of Amestris, but that would likely cross the line from _truthful_ to _unnecessarily hurtful_. “When Fu and Lan Fan come back, I’m sure they’ll find something you can do to help them out,” he assures him.

Fletcher sinks back into his seat. “I guess that’s fair,” he says, sounding slightly hurt nonetheless. “Just as long as you promise to be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Russell responds.

“And that’s what worries me,” Fletcher mumbles, just as Russell ducks out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually hell to write, and I’ll admit I’m not 100% thrilled with it, but I’m done struggling with it. So, here it is. I hope everyone’s doing as well as they can be after recent events; please know that my inbox is always welcome if you need to chat, or you can IM there. Anyway, enjoy the chapter! And, as always, feedback is appreciated.

Ling, like Mugear, has Resembool wrapped around his finger. After hours of oppressive heat, Russell traipses back to Lan Fan’s house with more questions than answers and a very wounded ego. Above all, he wonders _why_. Why is Ling here? Why does he want the Philosopher’s Stone so badly? _Why_ , Russell thinks with venom, kicking at a loose stone with more force than intended, is Ling able to impersonate him so _easily_ , so that the whole town speaks of him with stars in their eyes and awe in their voices, blind to the fact that he’s exploiting them outright? Seething, both in anger and under the beating sun, Russell finally flips back his hood to comb the sweat from his hair with his fingers; he resists the urge to tear it out.

He did learn one thing of value: Ling’s Stone prototype seems to be the real deal. Beyond the feet-kissing that still makes Russell want to punch something, the townspeople shared repeated accounts of Ling repairing tools, transmuting wheels, and renovating storefronts—apparently bypassing the law of equivalent exchange as easy as anything. Yet, how Ling’s prototype is able to do this is beyond him. Russell kicks another rock in his frustration; this one hits a shop window, hard enough to scratch, and Russell hurries further down the street before the shop owner can appear and chastise him.

“I can’t thank you enough, really,” a voice gushes up ahead. A very _familiar_ voice—Russell immediately glances up, eyes widening. His brother stands in front of the pharmacy, bronze armor gleaming under the bright afternoon light; beside him is a small boy with black hair. No, not a boy, Russell realizes. Indignation joins the shock and confusion he feels. That’s Mei—the girl pretending to be Fletcher. At Fletcher’s words, she gives her head a firm shake, though she’s smiling warmly.

“Don’t. It’s an equivalent exchange,” she says. “Not even equivalent; it’s the least I can do.”

“No, the _least_ you can do is get out of here,” Russell answers. Fletcher jumps, and Mei stiffens. Russell strides toward them, staring coldly down at Mei, who returns the glare with narrowed eyes and a tight jaw. “And leave my brother alone.”

“She—” Fletcher begins.

“I was just going,” Mei cuts in. When she reaches up to pat Fletcher’s elbow, murmuring, “Take care” in a softer voice, Russell notices a package in Fletcher’s hands. He doesn’t get the chance to ask before Mei takes off down the street, disappearing among the hobnobbing shoppers.

He could follow her, but quick as she is, with that much of a head start, it would be a challenge even if he weren’t so thoroughly exhausted. The townspeople would undoubtedly take her side, anyway. Scowling at the thought, Russell turns to Fletcher, who manages to look incredibly guilty even without a proper face.

“I swear, someone could hold a knife to your throat and you would ask them how their day is going,” Russell tells him.

“Well, I mean, it’s not like anyone could hurt me like that,” Fletcher says, gesturing to his helmet.

“It’s the _sentiment_ , Fletcher.” Russell turns sharply on his heel and starts toward Lan Fan’s house, blowing out a harsh breath. After a moment, Fletcher follows.

“I thought it was a good thing I’m so nice,” he says, a little hurt. “That’s what you said earlier.”

“I said that if everyone were as nice as you, the world would be a better place,” Russell corrects him. “Since it isn’t, it’s very possible to extend your kindness to people who don’t deserve it, who will _exploit_ it, which will leave you dejected at the very least and badly injured or dead if worst comes to worst.” He sighs again, though a little more gently. “I’m only trying to protect you, Fletcher.”

“You think I’m naïve.” He sounds wounded, but indignant. Russell hesitates before he answers.

“It isn’t a personal failing on your part,” he says. “Everyone is naïve at twelve, or they should be. The fact that you can still look at the world through rose-colored glasses after everything else you’ve seen is actually kind of remarkable. You’re soft, Fletch. But the world is not. It isn’t you who should have to change, but since they won’t—well. That’s how it is.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Fletcher murmurs.

Ignoring a ripple of discomfort, Russell stops and faces Fletcher with a crooked grin.

“Of course not,” he responds. “I was born with the sort of ruthless pragmatism the Fuhrer himself can only hope to one day achieve. There’s an icebox where my heart is meant to be. I’m so cold that Mother nearly froze to death giving birth to me, and the midwife got such bad frostbite she had to have three fingers and a thumb removed.”

“That’s not funny.” Fletcher’s voice is tight and angry. “I don’t like it when you make jokes like that.” He resumes walking at a fast, jerky pace. Russell hurries to catch up with him.

“Jokes aside, then,” he says, “what were you doing with that girl, Fletcher? Why are you even in town? I thought you were going to stay at Lan Fan’s house.”

“Well,” Fletcher says, still walking quickly, “I was poking around for some liniment and bandages for your bruises—”

“I don’t need—”

“Shut up, will you? So I was looking for liniment and I found a bottle, but it was mostly empty and I realized it must be for Fu, because of his limp and all, and he’s already letting us stay in his house, so I didn’t want to take that, too, you know? I figured I’d go to the pharmacy and buy some more. But then the lady wouldn’t sell me anything because she thought I was lying about being me,” Fletcher says, his words nearly as fast as his feet now. “And she kicked me out, and I was really upset because I didn’t think I’d be able to get you medicine, and that’s when Mei showed up!”

“I’m guessing that you didn’t tear that stupid hat from her head and let everyone know she’s a girl, and a liar,” Russell deadpans. “As you should have. As _I_ would have.”

“Well, uh, I thought about it,” Fletcher responds, an obvious lie. “But she realized I got kicked out of the pharmacy, and she was like, ‘What did you need to get? I’ll buy it for you.’ And I tried to tell her it was okay, don’t worry about it—”

“Of course you did,” Russell mutters.

“—but she insisted, so she got me some liniment and bandages and I think some special stuff for your nose—it looks pretty bad, Brother, I’m worried about it,” Fletcher continues, while Russell puffs his hair out of his face. “She brought it back to me, and I said thank you, and she said it was fine, and then we just … started talking, you know?”

Russell pricks up at that, speeding up to walk slightly ahead of Fletcher and look him in the face. “No, I don’t know,” he says. “You started talking with her? What about?”

Fletcher makes a vague gesture with his free hand. “Just … things.”

“What sort of things?” Russell insists. When Fletcher doesn’t answer, Russell says, “Did you ask her why she and Ling are here? Or about their research?”

“I wasn’t trying to _snoop_ , Brother,” Fletcher says crisply, as if offended by the idea. “I didn’t start asking questions just to get information out of her. She just looked a little overwhelmed and I thought she might want to talk about it. That’s all.”

“But you _did_ ask?”

Fletcher is quiet for a moment. They turn off the main street and start down the dirt path that leads to Lan Fan’s house, just beyond the town. Finally, Fletcher says quietly, “Yes, I did.”

“And what did she tell you, Fletcher?”

“It’s like they said.” He speaks hesitantly, not looking Russell in the face. “They’re trying to help the town.

Russell shakes his head. “Maybe Mei does,” he allows. “Not Ling.”

Fletcher, always wanting to give the benefit of the doubt, shakes his head. “Ling, too. She told me. She wouldn’t have agreed to help Ling if they didn’t have the same goals, and the one of those goals is to fix this town.”

The dirt gives way to grass and mossy, broken cobblestones, and Russell glances up to see Lan Fan and Fu’s cottage: smaller in the daylight, but no less inviting. Russell sighs as he approaches the door.

“Even if that’s true—and we can’t be certain that it is,” he says, “their intentions only mean so much, Fletcher. It goes beyond the illegality and moral wrongness of what they’re doing. The identity theft, wanting to transmute gold, fine. Whatever. But you heard Fu and Lan Fan. The town is dying because the people refuse to do anything but wait for the Philosopher’s Stone. Salvation is literally just under their feet, but they won’t get their heads out of the clouds long enough to look. Ling and Mei are only feeding into those fantasies. And by working with Mugear, who only wants money for himself, it’s all the more likely that they’ll only hurt this town worse, unintentionally or not.”

Fletcher pauses as he digests this. Russell sheds his coat the moment he enters the house; when that offers only slight relief, he pops open the first few buttons of his shirt as well. Fletcher watches warily while Russell stores the jacket in their borrowed room, then returns to the kitchen with his arms folded.

“That isn’t all she said, is it?” he says.

He expects Fletcher to deflect again. Instead, he replies, “I’ll tell you more if you let me patch you up.”

“I can—”

“You’ll rush through it.”

Russell considers. Fletcher did go to the trouble of getting him the medicine, and he does want to know what Mei said.

“I’ve taught you too well,” he mumbles.

“Sit,” Fletcher answers, pointing to the table.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Russell, stripped from the waist up, straddles a kitchen chair while Fletcher applies wet bandages to his shoulders and back. The liniment stings more than it soothes; Fletcher waves this away with some comment about there being disinfectant mixed in, but Russell wonders darkly if Mei bought the wrong thing, possibly on purpose. Still, he keeps his word, and no objection passes his lips while Fletcher works.

“You were right, Brother,” Fletcher says after a moment, his touch ginger as he presses a bandage just under Russell’s automail shoulder.

One of his favorite sentences, normally, but Russell can’t think of the context. “What about?” The words come out nasally and muffled from the plaster taped over his nose.

“When you said that maybe Ling and Mei are half-siblings. They are. Same dad, different moms. Turn a little?”

Obediently, Russell twists around so that his legs face the side of the chair instead of the back; Fletcher’s fingers find a bruise on Russell’s stomach, making him wince, and he takes the bottle of salve to soak a fresh bandage in it as he continues.

“Both their moms and their dad are from Xing, like Ling said last night, but Ling and Mei were born here in Amestris. They didn’t grow up together, though: Ling lived with his mom, and Mei lived with her mom. They actually only met for the first time a few months ago.”

“And their father?” Russell asks.

Fletcher hesitates. “He … wasn’t a good man, Russell,” he says softly. “Mei says he spent most of her childhood flitting between her mom and Ling’s, and probably some other women, too. He called himself a businessman; Mei says he was a con artist. He’d travel all over Amestris scamming people, and he’d come back every few months or years and show all his different girlfriends some money, and tell them soon he’d have enough for them to settle down and never have to worry about anything. It was all lies, of course … just stringing them along, or maybe trying to make himself feel better.”

Russell swallows, feeling uncomfortable. Sympathy for the imposters would be annoying enough, but it goes beyond that. The disappeared father, the waiting mother … it hits home for Russell in ways that only Fletcher could ever understand. Fletcher’s next words only cement that feeling.

“He was an alchemist, too, Brother. A really good one. A few years ago, he must’ve heard about Mugear’s Philosopher’s Stone project, and so he came here. The Stone … maybe he thought he was skilled enough to make it, or he’d just take all he could from Mugear and Resembool until they caught on and he had to take off again, or both … Mei isn’t sure,” Fletcher says. “Either way, he was exactly where they are now.”

Russell hums contemplatively. “Two con artists, each toying with each other for the most financial gain, with an entire village on the line,” he murmurs. “I wonder who won, in the end. Does Mei know that much?”

Fletcher shakes his head. “After her mom died, Mei started trying to find her dad,” he says. “No luck. Well, he’d have to be good at making himself hard to find, obviously. Any time she’d go after a lead, he’d be gone again. Resembool is where his trail just … stops, she said. She can’t work out _where_ he went next, or what happened to him. It’s like he just vanished.”

Russell can’t help a shiver of foreboding at that. Mugear’s enemies don’t tend to fare well in this town; Fu and Lan Fan are proof enough of that. But, suddenly, Russell wonders if their shunning was the best-case scenario. Mugear would lie, cheat, and steal for wealth; would he kill for it, too? Is this who Ling and Mei have made their ally?

“Where does Ling fit in?” Russell asks.

“He was looking for their dad, too,” Fletcher answers. “That’s how he and Mei met a few months ago. They realized who they were and what they were both after, and Ling suggested they work together.”

Fletcher secures the last of the bandages, wipes off the excess ointment, and gives Russell his shirt back; Russell dons it gratefully.

“You say ‘what they were both after’—what was that?” he asks, refastening his buttons. “Their father? But he was gone. Why stay in Resembool?”

“They realized they weren’t going to find him,” Fletcher murmurs. His voice has gone soft and solemn. “Or, even if they did, there’d be no point in it. I guess they decided to let bygones be bygones.”

“No, they didn’t,” Russell disagrees. “Because if they had, they wouldn’t be here, using our names to work in Mugear’s laboratory, just as their father had.”

“They probably felt stuck,” Fletcher tells him. “Deciding to stop looking for their dad after more than a year of looking for their dad? Maybe they just didn’t know what to do next, and they figured they might as well help.”

“No.” The immediate sharpness in Russell’s tone makes Fletcher wince. “It’s like I said: in the world we live in, no one would go to such extreme measures just to be generous, especially to people they don’t even know. Deciding to help on a whim—all right. That I’ll believe. But they didn’t have to work with Mugear to do that, especially since Mugear is full of it anyway. What they really wanted was to get into that lab. The question is, _why_.”

He lets Fletcher chew on that while he clips his suspenders into place, running his thumbs under the elastic to make sure they’re straight. It hits him, then. Russell’s hands drop to his sides so suddenly that Fletcher startles.

“It’s spite.” Fletcher looks confused. Russell huffs out a sour laugh. “They’re motivated by spite, Fletcher. Yes, they want to help Resembool, but it’s not out of compassion. They want to do it because their father didn’t,” he explains. “They want to prove to themselves that they’re the better people. And not just morally—even if he was mostly screwing with Mugear, their father still conducted research that he was apparently unable to finish. They want to complete it because _he_ couldn’t. If they surpass him, it won’t matter that he abandoned them.”

This last part isn’t meant to be said aloud: talking so quickly, understanding in ways he wishes he didn’t, it slips out before Russell can catch it. But Fletcher only tilts his head.

“Are you sure, Brother?” he says, sounding dubious. “I mean, maybe you’re right. Maybe kindness isn’t enough to motivate them. But that sounds … really petty.”

It touches a nerve. Russell can’t contain a small wince. It’s too much to hope that Fletcher won’t notice; he makes a soft noise as Russell straightens his face, and when Russell glances at him, he murmurs, “Oh.”

Russell continues, quickly. “To _you_ , it sounds petty,” he tells him. “As I’ve said, you’re much kinder than the average person. For most people, spite can be a very powerful motivator.”

He means to deflect, but instead his comment does the exact opposite. Fletcher fixes his gaze on Russell. Had he a human body, Russell imagines his face would be pinched with sympathy, and he frowns.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“I can’t look at you like anything, Brother.”

“You know what I mean. And _I_ know what _you_ mean.” He doesn’t want to be so sharp with Fletcher, but his implication pricks like a thorn. Fletcher should know better.

“You said it, not me,” Fletcher murmurs.

His suspicion confirmed, Russell lapses into silence. Fletcher’s gaze drifts away from him; he twiddles his thumbs, seeming awkward. The elephant in the room grumbles and snuffles.

“I am _not_ motivated by spite,” Russell says quietly. “Toward Father or anyone else.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t understand,” Fletcher responds.

This is not a conversation that Russell wants to have. This is a drawer that should remain unopened. Always. He steels himself, folding his arms, and then turns to Fletcher with an expression cool enough to sting.

“I _understand_ that Ling and Mei are breaking several laws and, worse still, have allied themselves with a selfish, no-good crook who is exploiting the entire village,” Russell says. “Their motivation doesn’t matter. They don’t have to _agree_ with Mugear: assisting him, sitting by, makes them equally complicit in his little scheme. I also understand that Ling and Mei have information that I— _we_ —want. Fletcher, Ling’s Stone allows him to bypass equivalent exchange. I heard it directly from the townspeople. He claims it’s merely a prototype, but like you said last night, it’s more than what we have. If we _did_ have it, Fletcher … it would be our biggest breakthrough yet.”

“I know, Russell.” There’s no disguising the longing in Fletcher’s voice, nor the hope. Beneath his apprehension, he wants the Stone as badly as Russell does. Russell uses that desire to push his plan forward.

“It’s settled, then. We’ll sneak back into the mansion tonight and get that research.”

“We can’t go _tonight_ ,” Fletcher insists. “It’s the next night! It’s too soon; they’ll expect us!”

“Only partially. The other half of their minds will assume that we aren’t so stupid as to try another break-in just a day later, and that ambivalence will leave them more confused than if we took them by surprise outright,” Russell explains. “We’ll use it to our advantage.”

“So … we’re going to outsmart them … by doing the stupid thing?” Fletcher asks.

“Exactly. Only it won’t be stupid, because we planned it in advance,” Russell tells him.

“I’m going outside,” Fletcher says, sounding oddly resigned. He stands. “I think Fu and Lan Fan are in the garden; they might want some help. Let me know what else we’re doing when you decide.”

“Uh—all right?” Russell’s confusion makes it a question. Fletcher ignores it; he crosses the kitchen and pushes open the back door, ducking under its frame before letting it shut behind him. It’s an old, rickety door, Russell figures. That must be why it almost slams.

* * *

Fu and Lan Fan are not night owls. By ten o’clock, both are sound asleep, filling the cottage with the soft sound of their snoring, which makes it all the easier for Russell and Fletcher to sneak out hours later. They soon come upon Mugear’s manor again: it gleams just as brightly as it had last night, its brilliant white even more unnatural-looking when Russell thinks of the gentle starlight around Lan Fan’s house.

“So what do we do? Retrace our steps from yesterday?” Fletcher whispers.

“No,” Russell murmurs back. “The light from that transmutation last night must have been what alerted Ling that we were here. I doubt he’ll want us to get into his research; if he catches us, we’ll have to fight him for it, and that’s something I’d rather avoid.” Part of him would love a rematch, actually, but he must admit it would be counterproductive. “We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Give me a boost.”

The brick is too smooth to climb on its own, but with Fletcher’s help, Russell manages to get a handhold at the top of the wall. He quickly hoists himself up and over, dropping into the grass around the manor rather gracelessly, but silently, at least. Fletcher poses a different problem. With his height, a running start is all he needs to reach the top of the wall, but his armor is loud; Russell hurries to help him down when he pulls himself over, so that by the time the guards rush over to the sound of the clanking, Fletcher is out of sight. Through the brick, Russell hears them grumble confusedly for a few moments before they return to their posts. He allows a small sigh of relief.

He has the impulse to twitch his bangs out of his face, but there’s no need: the pins in his hair keep them out of the way, even after the climb. How unexpectedly convenient. With Fletcher at this side, Russell creeps over to the door to Mugear’s library. Fletcher tests the knob.

“Locked,” he whispers.

“Naturally.” In one motion, Russell slides the pins out of his hair, which falls back over his face. Pushing it behind his ear, Russell makes quick work of bending the pins into the appropriate shapes. Fletcher makes a noise caught between disbelief and indignation as he kneels in front of the doorknob.

“Are you crazy?” he hisses, as Russell pushes the makeshift lever into place, sliding the pick in after it. “ _This_ is your plan? You can’t pick a lock with a hairpin!”

“Of course not. That’s why I have two.” The first acts as a lever, putting the barrel of the lock under pressure to turn. The second, the pick, nudges the actual pins inside the lock to the correct heights. Once the pins are aligned, the knob will turn. It can be done in minutes with enough practice; soon enough, as Fletcher watches incredulously, there’s a click, and the lock opens. Russell pockets the hairpins and straightens with a smile.

“You forget that your brother is a genius,” he tells him.

“My brother belongs in _jail_ ,” Fletcher responds.

“So does half the military.” Russell gestures inside. “After you.”

Inside the library, he becomes more serious. Ling snuck up on him last time; he refuses to let it happen again. Creeping through the dark, empty room, Russell notices how spotless it is, all signs of the earlier fight completely erased. A door opposite the one that leads outside beckons: it must be the entrance to the laboratory. It’s slightly ajar, light shining along the crack, but when Russell puts an ear to it, he hears nothing. Fletcher watches him for a moment.

“Anyone home?” he whispers.

“I don’t think so,” Russell murmurs. Carefully, centimeter by centimeter, he nudges the door further open until he can see inside. His hunch proves correct: this is definitely the laboratory, and a handsome one it is, too. Pale wood floors gleam under the fluorescent lights; the two worktables and desk are dark mahogany, books and papers stacked on top; the many delicate flasks and beakers, some full, some empty, could be made of crystal. No one seems to be inside, though. Russell forces the door wide open. Nothing happens.

“All clear. Let’s go,” he whispers, beckoning Fletcher with a hand.

While Fletcher examines the container of flasks on one of the worktables, Russell makes a beeline for the desk with all the research notes. Ling seems to be the opposite of Russell: chaotic in personality, but neat in his work style, files organized nicely and notes surprisingly concise, if his writing is slightly hard to read. Russell holds a page mere inches from his nose as he studies Ling’s small, cramped hand. What he’s able to decipher leaves him feeling impressed, in spite of everything: Ling takes his work much more seriously than he lets on.

Russell eases into the chair at the desk to inspect more notes. Fletcher continues to poke around, keeping an eye on the door to ensure that no one catches them. After several minutes of careful reading, Russell leans back in the chair with a huff, folding his arms.

“What do you think, Brother?” Fletcher asks.

“They certainly aren’t doing this for laughs,” he answers. “Even if they’re only building on their father’s work, which is what it seems like, what they’ve accomplished so far is remarkable, all things considered—their ages, having been here for a month or two at the most. They’re very serious about making a Stone. They appear to be on the right track as well … possibly on the verge of a breakthrough … but … hm.”

“What?” Fletcher says, when Russell trails off.

Russell considers the notes again before he answers, resting his chin on the back of his automail hand. He clicks his tongue in thought; Fletcher waits patiently for his assessment.

“Are there any more notes over there?” Russell asks him. “Another journal, loose papers, anything?”

“It just looks like books to me,” Fletcher says. He still goes back for a second look, and Russell joins him, thumbing through volumes thick and thin in search of another page of handwritten notes. Nothing. Not even a scribble in the margins. He shuts the book with a snap, tosses it aside, and leans forward to examine a rack of chemical samples in thin glass vials, each a different shade of red and gleaming dully in the bright light. Fletcher resumes his role as sentry.

Russell returns to Ling’s notes. He carries them over to the chemicals at the worktable and considers them side by side, chewing on a knuckle in his concentration. Yet, no amount of reading or studying will bridge what Russell slowly realizes is a massive gap between Ling’s research and Ling’s samples. The procedure is riddled with holes; the methodology is entirely nonsensical. Russell rereads, reanalyzes, and reconsiders until a headache begins behind his right eye, and nothing allays his growing frustration.  

“Brother.” Fletcher’s voice is so sudden that Russell startles. He whips around, expecting Ling, Mei, even Mugear—but, instead, Fletcher stands alone by the wall nearest Russell, an intent hand pressed against its surface. it looks nondescript to Russell, who squints in perplexity. Then, as he watches, Fletcher pushes gently forward, and the wall tilts inward. A hidden door. Russell’s frustration disappears in an instant.

“There you go, Fletcher!” he says approvingly, smiling at his brother. Fletcher, seeming pleased, pushes the panel open the rest of the way. A faint red light shines from the entryway into the laboratory. His interest further piqued, Russell joins Fletcher at the doorway and peers into the hidden room.

It’s very small, maybe ten square feet, its ceiling so low that Russell’s fingertips brush it if he raises his arm. The only piece of furniture is a small desk, upon which sits a corked flask of a bright red substance. It seems unable to decide if it’s solid or liquid. It barely covers the very bottom of the vial, but it throws off enough light to fill the tiny room, making it glow red like a cloud at sunset. The color, the sheen—and something else, some _aura_ it gives off that Russell can’t name—makes it recall the prototype Philosopher’s Stone that Ling carries. Russell’s heart leaps into his throat.

Fletcher seems to be thinking along similar lines. “Is this it, Russell?” he murmurs.

Russell holds his tongue between his teeth. He doesn’t want to hope for it, in case he’s proven wrong, but he can’t help his pulse thrumming with excitement. “It might be,” he says softly.

“Not exactly,” another voice answers.

Russell startles so badly that, were he holding the flask, he would have dropped it.

“Fucking hell,” he hisses. He turns to face Ling, who leans into the doorframe in a relaxed, almost sleepy manner. Mei lingers nearby, her hat pulled low over her brow, her braids hidden underneath it. At Russell’s curse, Ling clicks his tongue in reprimand.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he asks.

“Do you make a _habit_ of sneaking up on people?” Russell snarls back.

“I can’t help that you’re easy to sneak up on,” Ling says.

Color rushes into Russell’s face, and Ling smiles. It takes every ounce of willpower Russell possesses to remain calm—if he loses his temper, he’ll undoubtedly be barred from the information he very much wants to have. Nor does he want Ling to know how much he gets to him. Russell steadies himself with a long, deep breath, and then says, as evenly as possible, “Fine, then. You caught me. Here I am, having snuck here in the middle of the night yet again, and there _you_ are, having outwitted me, _yet again._ I admit it. Now that I’ve done that, could you possibly stop dancing around and playing your little head games and talk to me like an adult? Don’t you think you owe me that much?”

“I don’t think I _owe_ you anything,” Ling answers. Yet, his tone is different: before taunting, now contemplative, his dark eyes sizing Russell up. He taps a finger against his chin as he considers. Russell takes full advantage of the opportunity presented.

“Then tell me as one alchemist to another. When you say that this,” he gestures to the corked vessel, “is ‘not exactly’ a Philosopher’s Stone, what do you mean?” he asks. “Is it a precursor? Another prototype, like that shard you carry around? A byproduct? I don’t like you, Ling,” Russell says, and despite his determination to remain unruffled, he can’t resist laying gentle emphasis on these words. “But as a researcher—as someone who seeks the Stone for myself—I have to admire what you’ve achieved here.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Ling says dryly. Still, after a short sigh, he adds, “I’d love to answer your question, but aqua vitae—that’s what you’re looking at—is kind of tricky. Several schools of thought subscribe to the idea that it’s involved in making the Philosopher’s Stone, though everyone disagrees on how. Several more insist it’s an entirely distinct alchemical process, separate from the Stone altogether, and any similarities in their properties or makeup are just coincidence.” A small smile appears on his mouth. “But I don’t believe in coincidence.”

Neither does Russell. That makes the substance sitting beside him the closest thing to a Philosopher’s Stone he’s encountered yet. Beneath the initial excitement, however, Russell feels a flicker of suspicion.

“You used aqua vitae to make that shard you use, right?” he says. “That shard is powerful enough, and really similar to a Stone from what I could tell. That suggests that you’re only a few missing ingredients away from a fully completed Philosopher’s Stone. That’s phenomenal.”

Russell pauses. Ling arches a dubious eyebrow. Fletcher looks confusedly at Russell. Mei tries to keep her face impassive, but fails: her brows knit anxiously.

“Here’s the thing, though, Ling,” Russell continues. “If you made that flask of aqua vitae, which made that prototype Stone, you’re incredibly close to an actual Stone already. But I read your notes, I looked at your samples, and they tell a different story. You have no ingredients, no procedure. There’s no evidence in that laboratory that you ever made that aqua vitae at all.”

The tiniest ripple of unease flickers over Ling’s face.

“Someone else made it. Isn’t that right?” Russell says. “This isn’t the result of your research; this is the _cause_. That’s what all those vials in the other room are. That’s why you have at least ten different procedures that all go nowhere. And that’s why that flask is just about empty.” Russell’s voice gets quicker as he connects the dots aloud. “You’re taking samples and trying to reverse-engineer what your _father_ made because he didn’t leave any notes behind!”

Ling’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock is beyond satisfying.

“How do you—?” he begins. He answers his own question. Turning, he gives Mei a filthy look; Mei, to her credit, keeps her chin up and glowers right back. Ling returns his attention to Russell. “What, then?” he asks. “What about it?”

“‘What about it?’ Are you kidding me?” Russell huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “You might as well be trying to make aqua vitae from scratch! Actually, no. That would be _easier_. Trying to reverse-engineer something when you have a finished product—Ling, it’s like trying to split a hair, lengthwise. It’s impossible!”

“Improbable,” Ling corrects, his jaw tight. “Not impossible.”

“Your odds of success must be a million to one,” Russell shoots back. “A _billion_ to one.”

To Russell’s surprise, Mei pipes up then. “That’s what _I’ve_ been saying all along.”

“You, stay out of it,” Ling tells her crossly.

Russell doesn’t relent. “You’re fumbling in the dark, Ling. You’re a goddamn idiot if you actually thought that this would to work,” he says, while Ling’s expression grows darker and darker. “I was in town today, Ling. These people absolutely adore you. They have all their faith wrapped up in you. How do you think they’d react if they heard their savior call his chances of success ‘improbable’?”

“I can do this,” Ling snarls, stepping into Russell’s space. Fletcher, panicked, tries to get between them, but Russell stays him with a hand. “You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Ling says in a quiet, dangerous voice. “So do yourself a favor and shut your mouth before _I_ shut it _for_ you.”

“Someone’s grasping at straws.” Russell smirks, undaunted. “The kindest thing is for me to believe that you really were stupid enough to think your plan would work. In that case, you should just tell these people the truth and go home. Unless,” he says, as Ling breathes harshly, his hands curling into fists. Russell relishes in the shift: _this_ is how it’s meant to be. Russell the smooth talker, Russell with the upper hand, while his opponent seethes and spits and eventually flounders. “I wonder if you really were that stupid, Ling. Honestly, truly. For all your many, many objectionable qualities, you strike me as markedly clever. Is that so?”

“Stop talking,” Ling tells him sharply. “Now.”

“Russell, knock it off,” Fletcher breathes.

“Because here’s the thing, Ling,” Russell says, ignoring them both. “If you _are_ clever, if you know exactly what you’re doing … that means that you’re _using_ these people.” Anger begins to set in, its heat encroaching in his voice. “Glare all you want, Ling. I know what you are. You’re quite the liar, you know very well how to dance and play the part, but underneath it all, you’re nothing but a greedy, selfish scammer. A con artist. And you’re no better than your father.”

Ling’s hands connect with his chest. Russell can’t duck in time; in the next instant, he hits the wall hard, knocking his head hard against the plaster, while Ling curls one hand into his shirtfront and braces the other forearm against his panting throat. The taut muscle of his arm constricts Russell’s airway. In moments, he’s struggling to breathe.

“Stop it!” Fletcher shrieks, at the same time Mei yells, “He’s not wrong, you know!”

It’s her cry that quells him, startling him so that he drops his arm to turn and look at her. Russell slumps down the wall, gasping, massaging his sore neck; Fletcher runs over to kneel beside him. He glances from Ling, frozen with shock, to Mei, standing firm and indignant in the doorway of the hidden room.

Ling breaks the silence. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, either.” Yet, there’s no force in his voice.

“What the hell are we doing here, Ling?” she says.

“You know exactly what we’re—”

“No, what are we _doing_?” she repeats, angrier this time. “It’s just like he said, Ling! It’s just like _I’ve_ been saying all this time, but you don’t listen to me, you won’t!” A braid slides from her hat down into her face. Agitatedly, Mei tears the hat from her head and casts it aside; her braids spill freely over her shoulders. “You keep saying this is for the good of the town— _how_ are we helping this town by lying to them and giving them false hope? We can’t make the Stone out of what that old bastard left behind and you know it! And even if we could, what good would it do? As soon as the gold ran out, they’d be right back where they started. Tell me I’m wrong.” Ling stares at her, seeming unable to believe his ears. “Go on, tell me I’m wrong!”

“Mei.” Ling folds his arms. Russell recognizes the trick as one of his own—an attempt to look imposing when he feels targeted and defensive. “We are not con artists. We’re not like—like _him_. We _are_ trying to help this town. We really are.”

Mei huffs. “But not in the right way. And definitely not for the right reasons.”

Ling doesn’t have a response.

“Fletcher,” Mei says, turning to him, “you should take your brother and go. I’ll take care of things around here.”

“Wait—” Ling begins weakly. Mei shoots him down with a look.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Fletcher asks anxiously.

Her smile is warm, if tense. “I’ll handle it, I promise. Now go. There’s guards everywhere and if you get caught, we’ll all be in huge trouble.”

Russell wants to protest, if only to be contrary. However, he can’t deny that she has a point—and that, much as he shouldn’t, he trusts her. Fletcher helps him stand.

“There’s a blind spot if you go out this window and that way,” Mei tells them urgently, following them to the window and pointing.

“Thank—”

“Come _on_ , Fletcher,” Russell implores, undoing the latch. He urges him out first, takes a breath, and then glances back. Ling looks mutinous, but unsteady; between Russell’s comments and Mei’s, something seems to have cracked in him. Mei stalks over, retrieves her hat, and stuffs her braids back beneath it, her stern gaze on her brother. Russell turns away and makes his descent.

* * *

Once a safe distance from Mugear’s property, Russell heaves a long, loud sigh.

“Of all the ways I predicted _that_ to turn out,” he muses. His throat feels sore when he swallows; he hopes that it isn’t bruised. When Fletcher only continues to walk in silence, his gait harsh and fast, Russell speeds up slightly to match him.

“Best case scenario, Mei convinces Ling to drop the charade, or else she tells Mugear the truth herse—”

“I can’t believe you said that to him,” Fletcher snaps.

Russell blinks. Then, understanding, he scowls. “Well, you heard Mei. I wasn’t wrong.”

“It was uncalled for and possibly the meanest thing you’ve ever said, which is impressive because as much as I hate it, you’re _really_ good at saying mean things.”

“You said the same thing when I once told you I loved you and you claimed that I didn’t put enough inflection in it,” Russell answers. “Secondly, it was absolutely called for, because in case you’ve forgotten, dearest brother of mine, Ling is a liar and an _identity thief_ who may or may not be manipulating all of Resembool for his own personal gain—”

“But he’s not, you know he’s not!” Fletcher says, sounding exasperated. “He’s not some scammer, Brother; he really thinks he’s doing the right thing! Don’t you see how hurt and mixed up he is? You’re a State Alchemist, Russell! You’re supposed to _help_ people. And none of that ‘for the greater good’ crap—you’re supposed to help _all_ people. That means Ling, too. There’s got to be a way you can help Resembool and Ling and Mei all together.”

“Considering Ling and Mei will go to jail if I do what’s best for Resembool, which is expose them for what they are, I can’t agree with that,” Russell responds. “Nor can I agree that Ling’s a good person when he’s done nothing to prove the fact.”

“It was in his face,” Fletcher insists. “When you told him he was just as bad as his dad, and right before we left. He looked guilty. He realized all the bad he was doing to help these people was for nothing, and he felt awful about it. He’s trying so hard not to be like his father and then you go and tell him he’s acting just like him. How would you feel, Brother?”

Russell tries not to consider it, but Fletcher’s words force him. Angry, initially. Angry enough to pin someone to a wall and try to choke them. Then: devastated. Horrorstruck. Empty. Russell cringes. “Stop making me feel sympathetic,” he says crossly.

“I’m not making you feel anything. That’s all you,” Fletcher tells him. When Russell doesn’t answer, he says, “You always say I always try and help everyone. Where do you think I learned it from?”

“Certainly not me.” Russell tries to keep walking; Fletcher clasps his arm and holds him back, forcing him to look up at him.

“Yes, you, stupid,” Fletcher says. “You care about people. You care about this town. That’s part of why you’re so angry at what Ling and Mei doing.”

“This town is running itself into the ground because of its own shortsightedness and stupidity,” Russell responds.

“But you still care.”

Russell makes a noncommittal noise.

“And you care about Ling and Mei, too. You know they’re not bad people, just misguided.”

“Wholly, absolutely, possibly irreparably misguided,” Russell says firmly.

“All things considered, I’m pretty sure we were worse.”

Russell winces. “You had to go _there_ , didn’t you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“You’re not, but you don’t need to be so smug about it.” Russell lowers his voice as they near Lan Fan’s house, creeping as quietly as he can toward the bedroom window they left ajar. Inside the room, Russell makes short work of removing his boots and coat. Fletcher watches him as he lies on top of the covers, face down, sighing in exhaustion.

“You’re going to drag me kicking and screaming into doing the right thing, aren’t you?” he mumbles into the pillow.

“That’s the plan.” Fletcher pats his head with a large, armored hand, while Russell groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I thought this would be a oneshot, around 20k. Now I have 30 planned chapters. :’) Updates will hopefully become more timely once the semester ends and I have ample time to write.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update at last! I said I’d be scarce, but, well, here I am. I love this fic too much to abandon it for too long. I hope you all had a lovely holiday, for those who celebrate. In light of recent events in America especially—I trust I don’t need to elaborate—I want all of you to know you’re valued and loved, and I’m here and on [tumblr](http://bpdrussell.tumblr.com/) if anyone needs or wants to talk. Anyway. Enjoy the chapter! Your feedback is my lifeblood! ♥

The shaking invades Russell’s dream at first. He imagines fingers digging into his shoulders and sharp, accusatory eyes, glaring so coldly that he cowers in equal parts trepidation and shame. When he startles awake, he struggles to orient himself, half-caught in the dream still. Someone _is_ shaking him—glowering, too—but the face is unlined, the eyes wide and dark instead of pale and narrow. Recognizing Lan Fan after a moment of confusion, Russell relaxes somewhat, if only because she looks so different from his father; her tight, angry expression still promises nothing good.

Lan Fan gives him no time to recover. “There better be a damn good reason,” she says stiffly, jabbing a finger out the bedroom door, “that one of Mugear’s people is coming up the drive right now.”

“What?” Russell sits up, immediately alert, and stares at her. “What are they doing here?”

“You tell me,” Lan Fan retorts. “For some reason, I don’t think they’re here for me or Grandfather.”

Fletcher appears in the doorway, looking tense. “It looks like one of the mansion guards,” he tells them. “Do you think we were followed, Brother?”

“That, or your little friend lied,” Russell responds. The sting of betrayal is unexpected, yet sharp. He trusted Mei. Only barely, true—against his better judgment, for certain—but he still trusted her, and Fletcher did, too. Have they been deceived yet again?

“What do you mean, ‘followed’?” Lan Fan says. When Russell nor Fletcher answers, fresh anger makes her mouth twist. “You didn’t sneak into the mansion _again_ , did you?”

“We—” Fletcher’s panic, breaking off his sentence before it begins, is as good as any confession. Lan Fan turns livid.

“After we took you in—!”

“I know, I know, how could we?” Russell says impatiently. Already his mind has started racing. “Mugear has social and political power, true, but no actual authority; I doubt he can legally arrest us—”

“ _Someone_ can! We broke into his mansion, Russell!” Fletcher says painedly, at the same time Lan Fan snaps, “When has Mugear ever cared about what’s legal?”

The knock on the door startles them all into silence.

“What should we do, Brother?” Fletcher whispers a moment later. “Leave?”

“No. They already know that we’re here,” Russell answers. He turns to Lan Fan, who eyes him suspiciously. “We aren’t going to run off and leave you to take the heat for what we’ve done. I won’t do that to you. You’ve done too much for us.”

Lan Fan blinks, seeming bemused. A faint blush colors her face. “Well, good,” she says, sounding notably less brusque.

“But what happens if we stay and face them?” Fletcher asks in a strained voice. “Won’t they try and take us to jail?”

“We do have a defense,” Russell says. “Remember, Fletcher, we aren’t the real trespassers here. We’d have never broken into Mugear’s mansion at all were it not for Ling and Mei—oh, don’t give me that look, Fletch, please,” he adds emphatically, when Fletcher immediately recoils. “What choice do we have but to turn them in? We can’t afford to go to jail to protect our own identity thieves; we can’t afford to go to jail, _period_. You know that.”

“But what’ll happen to Mei and Ling?” Fletcher murmurs.

Much as he wishes it were otherwise, deep in his gut, Russell knows that they aren’t bad people, only misguided. Mugear turned Fu and Lan Fan into pariahs just because they got the measure of him. For deceiving him outright—what _will_ he do to Mei and Ling? Before he can dwell on it overmuch, Russell forces himself to harden his heart.

“Nothing that they don’t deserve,” he responds. “I know you like that girl, Fletcher, but she and her brother should have known that their actions would have consequences. They’ll reap what they’ve sown.”

“And what about you?” Lan Fan rejoins. Odd, she almost sounds concerned. “The law isn’t on your side here, Russell.”

“But Mugear doesn’t play by the law,” Russell reminds her. “I’ve met people like him, Lan Fan; I know his game. We only need to make him believe he has more to gain by letting us walk free than by arresting us. Nice of you to use my name, by the way. How did I convince you?”

“How did you convi—?” Lan Fan shuts her mouth with a click, flushing indignantly pink. She recovers enough to roll her eyes just as Mugear’s guard gives another louder, more insistent rap on the door, making them all jump.

“Time to face the music, then,” Russell says, before he can lose his nerve, and turns sharply on his heel to exit the bedroom.

At the front door, he allows a moment to take a breath; Fletcher comes up behind him, steadying him with a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Russell bites the bullet and turns the knob. An austere-looking guard immediately falls over the threshold.

Russell half-expects her to lunge at him to take him in right there. Instead, once she regains her balance, she bends at the waist in a deep, formal bow, making him blink in surprise. She straightens again to bestow upon him and Fletcher a gracious smile.

“Major Russell Tringham, and you must be his brother, Fletcher,” she greets them, bringing her hands together. “Oh, I’m glad to have found you.”

“Glad to have—?” Russell begins, struggling to process the words, the meaning behind them.

“On behalf of my employer, Mister Mugear, please allow me to humbly apologize for the terrible inconvenience the imposters must have brought you, sir,” the woman continues in a crisp voice, not missing a beat. She inclines her head. “How awful that a man of your stature should have to deal with something so troublesome! Mister Mugear is so embarrassed. If you and the younger Mister Tringham would be willing, sir, Mister Mugear would be so grateful if you’d come to his manor so that he may apologize to you personally.”

“A-apologize—to us?” Fletcher repeats.

Russell’s wits slowly return to him. “So, you found out about the imposters, then?” he asks, his voice cool.

A shadow passes over the guard’s face, and she nods gravely. “We are so terribly, terribly sorry for all the trouble, sir,” she says again.

“What happened to them?” Fletcher blurts out.

The guard gets a small, satisfied smirk, folding her hands behind her back. She must mistake the urgency in Fletcher’s voice for eagerness. “Don’t you worry about that, Mister Tringham. They’ve been punished accordingly. Mister Mugear has them under lock and key in his cellar. We assure you, they won’t be bothering you again.” Then, before Russell can swallow this ominous piece of news, she says composedly, “I would hate to keep Mister Mugear waiting. Won’t you follow me, Major Tringham, Mister Tringham?” What she calls a request sounds more like an order, albeit a shrewdly disguised one.

Russell glances at Fletcher, who would be staring in open-mouthed shock were it possible, and then discreetly over his shoulder at Lan Fan, who lingers in the guest bedroom doorway wearing an expression of incredulity. Meeting his gaze, she mouths, _What’s going on?_

He shrugs as minutely as possible before settling his eyes back on the guard. The sudden turn of events has him reeling, but he refuses to let it show. “We would be honored,” Russell answers calmly, and allows the guard to turn and lead them out the door.

He feels Fletcher’s gaze on him throughout the car ride, possibly looking for any signs of approval or pleasure. Yet, Russell feels neither. This is what he’s wanted since first meeting Ling—since first being evicted from that tavern days ago, in truth—but now that it’s happened, he feels only foreboding as he wonders what Mugear wants from him to seek his good graces like this. Ling and Mei’s imprisonment makes him feel equally uneasy. Punished accordingly, the guard said … whatever that means can’t be good. His rivalry with Ling seems suddenly petty in light of whatever awful thing might have happened to him—possibly because of Russell, if Mugear thinks abusing Ling might help him gain Russell’s favor. The thought forces Russell to swallow back bile.

From Fu’s and Lan Fan’s accounts, Russell expects just what he sees when he meets Mugear himself at last—a very tall, very broad man with a combover, wearing a crisp suit and a gracious smile that Russell’s sharp eyes immediately read as false. Like the guard, he bows respectfully when Russell and Fletcher enter his foyer.

“Welcome, Major Tringham, Mister Tringham,” Mugear says, still inclining his head. “How glad I am that you would grace this foolish old man with your presence—oh, I am just _mortified_ at what I’ve let transpire here. From the bottom of my heart, let me impress upon you both how dreadfully sorry I am that I allowed those imposters to deceive me as they did.” When he lifts his eyes, he catches sight of Russell’s broken nose and goggles. “So much for hoping you had escaped those imposters unscathed!” he gasps.

With startling speed, he crosses over to tilt Russell’s face up, examining the injury.

“Oh, dear me, dear me, how awful. I expect that young Xingese man did this to you?” He clicks his tongue, while Russell tries not to cringe at his sudden proximity. “I have an attending physician, Major Tringham, if you would like—?”

“It’s healing fine on its own, but thank you, sir,” Russell answers, attempting a polite smile.

Mugear releases Russell’s face to press his hands dramatically over his own. “Oh, what a disaster this is. You cannot fathom the shame and embarrassment I feel, Major Tringham—or may I call you Russell?”

“You may,” Russell says, watching as Mugear lowers his hands, a passably sheepish smile on his face.

“I fear I will never be able to make this up to you,” he says, “but might I attempt to do so with a meal? You must be famished, forced to stay with that senile old gardener and his bad-tempered granddaughter; I imagine they fed you little more than lettuce and rice, being Xingese, no?” He chuckles at his own joke, not noticing how Russell grits his teeth behind his fake smile.

“A meal sounds lovely,” Russell manages.

Mugear beams. “Then follow me, please.”

Fletcher presses close to Russell’s side as they walk and whispers to him as quietly as he can. “Why’s he being so nice? He’s gotta know we broke into his mansion, right, Brother?”

“Undoubtedly,” Russell breathes back. “He wants something from us, Fletcher. We’ve no choice but to find out what that might be. Let me do the talking.” Fletcher knows better than to argue with that.

In an elegant dining hall, Russell and Mugear sit across from one another, Fletcher at Russell’s right, as a young woman serves them bowls of vegetable soup. Fletcher declines with a polite hand. “Um, no thank you, miss,” he tells her.

“Special diet, you see,” Russell says smoothly, as Mugear lifts his eyebrows. “Poor Fletcher here has a plethora of terrible allergies. He’d gladly partake if he could.” Fletcher nods empathically—and not untruthfully, Russell realizes with a pang. He distracts himself with the soup.

Mugear spends the meal explaining the circumstances that brought Ling and Mei here. Their father, Wu Yao, had worked under him years ago, he tells them; with cunning his children must have inherited, he too tricked Mugear to get into his laboratory, pretending to know about the Philosopher’s Stone to cash in on the funds the research provided. Just like with Ling and Mei, Mugear found him out eventually, and fired him at once. He disappeared shortly thereafter, likely to find a new town for his next scheme. Mugear very carefully avoids implicating himself in either scandal. His story ends just as they’re finishing the main course; while Russell wipes his mouth with his napkin, Mugear sighs dramatically and leans back in his chair.

“Now, of course, I’m back at square one yet again,” he says long-sufferingly. “It seems my project must once more be put on hold, until I can find another alchemist—or alchemists—willing to work for me.”

It makes sudden, perfect sense: Mugear wants Russell and Fletcher to complete his Stone since Ling and Mei couldn’t. He gives Russell a very pointed look down the bridge of his nose, confirming his suspicion.

“I would hate to add insult to injury,” Mugear tells him, “but I’ve heard so much of your talents, Russell—why, I was beside myself with joy when I believed Wu Yao’s son to be you. Terrible of me to ask, I know, but, oh, an honor it would be to _really_ work with you…”

Russell stalls by taking a sip of water. “I imagine you’re asking, in addition, for me to keep this project a secret from the state,” he responds, deciding it best to be frank. Mugear doesn’t flinch under Russell’s glance.

“I would offer you forty percent of all profits,” he says, “as well as the safety of my home and my protective influence should the military come after you.”

Russell hums, pretending to mull it over. Mugear watches him closely.

“You have the opportunity to help so many people here, Russell,” he says after a moment. “Won’t you accept it?”

The words produce a sudden thrill of anger. There he sits, planning on using the Stone for his own selfish gain, and he has the gall to bribe Russell with the promise of helping Resembool. He shuts his eyes for a moment, willing himself to remain calm.

“Something the matter?” Mugear says innocently.

“Only…” When Russell opens his eyes, he sees Mugear watching him with an almost hungry expression. “I had a look at Ling’s research last night, sir,” he tells him, injecting the right amount of bashfulness as he admits to the trespassing. “I must admit, I have my doubts. Even an alchemist of my caliber would find it difficult to breach the tremendous holes in their work, especially midstream.”

“State Alchemist at twelve, I’m sure you could do it!” Mugear replies at once.

He clearly doesn’t plan on taking no for an answer. Likewise, Russell doesn’t intend to work for him—he detests him, and has nothing to gain from deserting the military, moreover. He also knows for a fact that Ling’s research is dead in the water. He keeps all of this to himself.

“Well,” he says, drawing the word out, “I suppose it’s worth a try. I do like a challenge.” Mugear beams. “Of course, I’d want to talk to Ling Yao, if you don’t object,” he adds politely.

“Of course, of course,” Mugear agrees, waving an airy hand. “If you’re finished eating, I’ll escort you to the cellar to see him and his sister.”

The meal ends soon after that, and Russell and Fletcher follow Mugear down a staircase at his beckoning. Once again, Fletcher pulls Russell aside. “What are you planning?” he whispers.

“I’ll tell you when I find out,” Russell answers.

* * *

The cellar is cool and dark, in stark contrast to the rest of the house. Mugear unbolts the heavy iron door and gestures inside.

“The far one on the right,” he tells them.

“May I talk to them alone?” Russell asks, and Mugear nods agreeably, beckoning the lone guard at the end of the long row of cells with a hand. Only once the heavy door has shut behind them does Russell approach Ling and Mei, seated behind a wall of bars.

Seeing them, Mei immediately runs up. “Russell! Fletcher!”

“What happened to your face?” Fletcher cries out.

Beneath her thick black hair, coming undone from its braids and spilling over her forehead, a dark, shiny bruise is forming over her right eye. Her hands are bound in front of her in handcuffs. She ignores Fletcher’s concerns with a shake of her head, gripping the bars as best as she can to look up at them beseechingly.

“He knew,” Mei says desperately. “Mugear. He knew the whole time who we were, he was playing us.”

“What?” Fletcher gasps, as Russell stares in shock. He looks over Mei’s head at the bench behind her, where Ling sits on the floor with his back against the wall, his arms propped on his knees, his eyes downcast.

“What happened?” Russell asks him. When Ling doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge him, Mei answers instead.

“After you guys left last night,” she tells them, “he came to see us, to ask about our research, we thought. Instead he started asking about the two of you. Ling’s been telling him you’re bandits, no real threat, nothing to worry about, but out of nowhere Mugear revealed he knew you were the real Tringham brothers all along. He knows about our father, too—and when we couldn’t deny it, Ling tried to grab me and take off, but then one of the guards grabbed him, and then I tried to attack Mugear and he hit me and we couldn’t get away, we were surrounded, and they caught us and threw us down here.” Mei gulps, her big dark eyes glistening with tears. “Russell, Fletcher, I know it’s way too late to be saying this,” she says, her voice thick, “but we’re sorry. We’re really, really sorry. We were wrong to do what we did. We thought we were doing the right thing, but we really just messed everything up for everybody.”

“No, no, you didn’t,” Fletcher murmurs. He tries to fit the armor’s hand through the bars to pat her head when she starts to cry; he doesn’t have much luck. “It’s okay, Mei. We understand why you did it. We’re not mad or anything, promise.”

Mei looks from Fletcher to Russell, interpreting correctly that his forgiveness isn’t as easily won. Her earnestness, more than the tears now pouring steadily over her cheeks, makes Russell heave a loud sigh as he softens in spite of himself.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to tell you ‘no harm done,’ because you _have_ done harm here,” he tells her. “Both of you. You may not be to blame for the bombing or for your father’s and Mugear’s scams, but waiting on the Philosopher’s Stone is killing this town and you’ve given them more reason to hold out hope for it. And you should never have allied yourselves with Mugear. He’s a crook at the very least and a dangerous, masterful con artist at the most. This is what you get for thinking you could outsmart him.”

In the back of the cell, Ling seems to shift a little, though he doesn’t give Russell’s words any more acknowledgment than that. Mei, flushing with shame, bows her head.

Russell claps his hands and touches the bolt locking their cell. In a flash of green sparks, the bolt severs cleanly in half; the pieces fall heavily to the ground, the cell’s door falling slightly ajar as it’s no longer held in place.

“Make it right, then,” Russell says. Mei blinks, startled. “You’re good people; I see it in your faces. Prove it, then. You’re smart, you’re goodhearted, and you owe this town to help them now. Go out there and find a new way to do it. And stop with all the lying. Being honest, doing the right thing for its own sake— _that’s_ how you prove to yourselves and everyone else that you’re better than your father. There’s nothing wrong with hating who he was and what he did, but let that hate push you forward, not back.”

He shoves the cell door open the rest of the way to emphasize his words. Mei approaches the gap immediately, though hesitantly, like she’s waiting for it to be some kind of trick. When Russell only takes a step back and gestures out, her face splits into a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” she manages through her tears, shaky but determined. Russell shakes his head.

“All I’ve given you is the chance I think you deserve. Don’t screw it up.”

Fletcher breaks off her handcuffs, and she hugs him around the waist in gratitude, then Russell, too, taking him by surprise. Dashing away the rest of her tears, Mei turns in the doorway of the cell and looks back at Ling. He still hasn’t moved.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asks him, as gently as Russell’s ever heard her speak to him. It gets Ling’s attention where Russell’s brusqueness didn’t.

“Go on ahead,” he tells her quietly. “I’ll meet up.”

Though she looks unsure, Mei nods. She turns resolutely and walks down the hall between the rows of cells. Ling watches her go, then returns his gaze to the floor.

“I’ll make sure she isn’t seen,” Fletcher mutters, and takes off after Mei, the armor clanking loudly in the sudden, heavy silence.

When the pair of them have gone, Russell leans his hip against the cell’s bars.

“In case you didn’t hear me,” he says dryly, “you’re free to go.”

“I can’t,” Ling murmurs.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t deserve freedom.” Ling draws his knees up to his chest and presses his forehead against them. “I hurt too many people, directly and indirectly. I deserve to be punished. I’m staying here.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Russell deadpans. When Ling doesn’t respond, Russell says, with a little more heat, “So, what, you think that moping here is going to make up for it? You can’t think of anything better to do with your guilt than wallow in it? What does that do for anyone, Ling? You’ve got to use that guilt and anger and despair to push you in a positive direction, not sit and—hell, were you listening to me at all?” He can’t keep the slightest whine out of his voice; he hates more than anything talking to empty air, and he thought he’d been very eloquent just now.

“Little bit,” Ling mumbles, so softly Russell has to strain to hear him. He lifts his head and says, louder now, “If you’re here, that means Mugear invited you. Is that right?”

“He wants Fletcher and I to pick up where you and Mei left off,” Russell tells him. A smirk twitches on his lips. “Forty percent of all profits. Talk about a slippery, conniving bastard, huh?”

“I _worked_ with him,” Ling says. It’s almost a moan. “I helped him. His grip on this town was slipping when I showed up at his door and having me helped him sink his claws in further. I really thought I was smarter.” Russell startles him by crossing into the cell before he can bury his head in his knees again.

“Look,” he says. The word comes out harsher than he intended. He tries, diligently, to make his voice the tiniest bit gentler. “I don’t like you. You don’t like me.”

“I never said I didn’t like you,” Ling disagrees, looking up to meet Russell’s eyes at last.

Russell blinks. “Well—” He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Regardless. I can’t stand to see you like this, Ling. You’re taking too much blame for all that went on here. And, you know what, even if it _were_ all your fault, if this is the worst thing you do in your life? You’re doing pretty well, I’d say. No one dead, no one maimed, no one destitute. You haven’t caused any harm you can’t reverse and make up for tenfold.” He perches on the edge of the bench. Ling isn’t looking at him anymore, but Russell can see him processing his words, if reluctantly. Almost without meaning to, he gives a small, humorless laugh. “That’s more than I can say for myself, actually.”

Ling glances up again in surprise, staring at Russell intently. Russell swallows. Something in the depth of his dark eyes makes him think that, if Ling asked him to elaborate, he’d admit to trying human transmutation right here and now. Having told no one but Belsio and Colonel Mustang, it’s an alarming idea. He’s more than slightly relieved when Ling looks back down and doesn’t press.

“Your mistakes don’t define you, nor do your tragedies,” Russell says. “It’s how you respond to them that matters. There’s no point in beating yourself up over this—believe me, I’m sure the townspeople will gladly do that for you once you show your face now that they know the truth. Take your licks, pay your dues, and move on with your life. Don’t let this destroy you. I look at your face and I know that you’re better than that.”

“Really.” Ling’s face is beseeching, but the word comes out sarcastically. Realizing why that might be, Russell feels a twinge of guilt.

“Yes, really. And I’m sorry for what I said last night. It would have been shitty of me regardless, but it was especially shitty all things considered,” he says.

Ling tilts his head. “What do you mean by that?” When Russell doesn’t answer, chewing the inside of his cheek, Ling says, “Your father was a con artist, too?”

The drawer is open again, but Russell hesitates before he kicks it closed as violently as he usually does. He practically handed Ling the key, after all. Subconsciously, he must recognize a kindred spirit, or else he’s desperate to lighten his load some.

“I actually don’t know,” Russell answers. “I don’t know what my father did, or who he was, really. He kept his secrets close to his chest and held everyone at a distance, even my mother; by the time I could talk, she’d long since stopped trying with him. I never did, though. All the same, nothing I did or said ever convinced him to let me in. It’s the sort of thing you just can’t _not_ take personally.”

“I never bothered with mine,” Ling says. “I’m glad I didn’t. That must’ve been awful.”

Russell shrugs like it isn’t any big deal. “He left like yours did, some six years ago, so it isn’t as if I have to deal with him anymore.”

“He’s gone. Your feelings aren’t.” Ling huffs out an empty laugh. “I imagine you’ve dealt with them better than I’ve dealt with mine.”

“I haven’t _dealt_ with them much at all,” Russell tells him honestly. “I know I don’t hate him, though part of me wishes I did, or could. It’d be easier. Besides that, I try to think about him as little as possible. Out of sight, out of mind, you know?”

“That doesn’t sound healthy,” Ling says.

“Now you sound like my brother.”

Ling cracks an ironic smile.

“You’re lucky you have your brother,” he murmurs after a pause. “He’s a good kid.”

“The best,” Russell agrees. “But don’t sound so bereft. Chasing after your father may have led to a lot of stress and heartache, but it did result in one good thing: it brought you and Mei together. Make the most of that. It’s good to have someone to rely on, and looking after someone you care about is its own reward.”

“I haven’t been very good to her,” Ling says, sounding guilty.

“Then be better,” Russell says simply. “Make it up to her. Make it up to this town. Do the right thing. Here—” he kneels in front of Ling, seizes the lock on his handcuffs, and snaps it off with his automail hand, “—is your shovel.” He meets Ling’s eyes. “Start digging.”

For a moment, Ling looks doubtful and confused, his eyes searching as Russell rises again. Then, determination settles over his face; his eyes brighten with it. Satisfied, Russell turns on his heel and leaves.

* * *

“Ah, Russell!” He doesn’t bother to smile as Mugear descends from the staircase, looking pleased. “I trust you found what you needed in the cellar?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Russell answers. “I asked about their research, I asked about their father—on that subject, actually, I must admit, something’s been nagging at me a bit.”

“Oh?” Mugear comes to a halt at the foot of the stairs, a hand on the railing. “And what might that be?”

“Ling and Mei chased their father all over the country for quite some time, Mugear,” Russell tells him. “Speaking as someone with both personal and professional experience on it, it actually isn’t very easy to just disappear without a trace. Even someone as slippery as Wu Yao will leave a trail, however subtle. Yet, his trail dies in Resembool. Both Ling and Mei agree on that; it’s why they stayed here, using our names to continue his research. How do you suppose he vanished like that?”

“Wu Yao was a criminal mastermind,” Mugear says coolly. “Used to persecution, I’m sure he had his ways. Perhaps his children simply aren’t the sleuths they think they are.”

“Or he never left,” Russell murmurs.

He doesn’t think he imagines how Mugear’s face whitens. “I beg your pardon?” he says, suddenly caustic, cold.

“Wu Yao’s trail ends in Resembool because he never left,” Russell repeats. He holds Mugear’s gaze even when he glares fiercely. “He died here; his trail, quite simply, died with him. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” He relishes in the way Mugear’s tiny eyes widen in shock. “If he left here alive like you insist, why would you be using past tense?”

“You little—!” Beneath the fury, Russell hears the fear and horror plain as day in Mugear’s voice.

“You’re a thief, a liar, and a murderer,” Russell says coldly. “I’d sooner chew broken glass than even consider helping you. The townspeople, Ling, and Mei are responsible for some of what’s been going on here, but you’re worse than all of them by far, and I’ll see to it that you pay dearly for what you’ve done.”

“And how will you do that, boy?” The pompous, oily man from moments ago disappears in an instant, his features now sharply drawn and dangerous. “Will you run and tell the military, hiding behind their uniforms with your tail between your legs?” From the pocket of his trousers, Mugear produces a small, shimmering red shard. Russell recognizes it as Ling’s prototype Stone. “I’m not giving you the chance.”

Russell’s lip curls. “Why don’t you see if you can stop me,” he says, and claps his hands as Mugear lunges.

Russell’s as quick and lithe as his frame might suggest—he bends backward instead of forward to avoid Mugear’s grasping hands, balances himself with one palm splayed flat on the ground behind him, and swings his legs over his head to land in a crouch several feet back. Within seconds of steadying himself, Russell transmutes a sword from the tile under his hand; the blade whistles as he whips it through the air, deadly sharp.

“Ha!” Mugear barks. “You won’t get close enough to even scratch me with that!”

Gripping Ling’s shard, he slaps a large hand against the railing of the stairs. A flash of brightest, bloodiest red, and then Mugear cradles a double-barreled rifle in his hands, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

_Looks like I brought a sword to a gunfight._

Russell ducks for cover as Mugear opens fire.

He quickly takes refuge behind one of the half-dozen ornamental pillars decorating the foyer. With the prototype Stone, Mugear’s able to generate an endless stream of ammunition; the bullets chip at the plaster of the pillar and the tile all around it, throwing up dust and bits of debris that soon have Russell coughing. There’s nowhere he can run, and no way that he can attack outright, unless he wants to be riddled with gunfire. He can hardly even think around the roar of bullets. He has no idea where Fletcher is. Russell bites out a curse as Mugear laughs.

“Tapped out already, Major? I would think that a State Alchemist would be more of a challenge!” he crows.

Russell grits his teeth, presses his hands together, and slams his palm onto the floor to split open the ground between him and Mugear. It’s no use; Mugear steps easily out of the way before the fissure gets anywhere near his feet.

“Damn it!” Russell snarls. He really is—much as he hates to admit it—trapped. His sword might as well be made of plastic for all the good it does him. The pillar trembles ominously behind his back as the waves of bullets eat it away—yet, before panic can set in, this gives Russell an idea, and he grips the sword firmly in his automail hand. Rising up on his haunches, he swings the blade in an arc toward the crumbling pillar. Between the awkward angle and the struggle of steel against stone, Russell can’t cut all the way through, but he causes enough damage that the pillar’s weight does the rest for him: he gives it a good shove in Mugear’s direction for good measure, listening in grim satisfaction as Mugear screams and scrabbles to get out of the way. The pillar falls with a deafening crash.

Russell’s on his feet in an instant, even as plaster dust collects in his lungs and makes it hard to breathe. He expects Mugear to be struggling to his feet in the ensuing wreckage, if the pillar didn’t crush him entirely. Yet, when Russell approaches cautiously, he discovers with a thrill of horror that Mugear has recovered quickly, and now wields another rifle even larger than the last. He aims it with a sadistic grin.

“Fuck!” Russell can’t escape behind another pillar before a bullet lodges in the calf of his automail leg, making him stagger. He makes sure his back is covered before he furiously assesses the damage: no pain, of course, no loss of function as far as he can tell, but the cracked plating and exposed wires don’t bode well. “Fuck,” Russell hisses again. If Mugear doesn’t kill him, then Belsio certainly will when he sees this.

Mugear pours bullets into the pillar Russell’s hiding behind. With less distance between them, the stone deteriorates even faster, leaving Russell to choke on dust as he struggles to think of an out. There’s no chance of dropping this pillar on him, too; Mugear is too crafty to fall for the same trick twice. His head swims with the sounds of ricocheting bullets and Mugear’s maniacal laughter so that he nearly misses it when someone calls his name: “Russell!”

“Ling?!” Russell hollers back, as Ling barrels into the room and right into the middle of the chaos. “Ling, get out of here!” Russell shouts before Mugear notices him. “Leave! Now!”

Mugear turns, his grin growing even nastier when he lays eyes on Ling. He aims a spray of bullets in his direction that Ling barely avoids, ducking, like Russell, behind a nearby pillar.

“You know, I think I’ve had just about enough of you!” he booms. “Why don’t you go back to your own country?”

“I was born here, twat!” Ling snaps back, and then—is he _insane_?—runs out from behind the pillar to sprint over to Russell. Russell scrambles to transmute a wall to protect him from Mugear, which barely holds up under the gunfire; it crumbles just as Ling reaches him, pressing into his side to take shelter with him behind his pillar.

“What the hell are you doing?” Russell hisses.

“Saving your ass,” Ling answers shortly. He tips his head back to shout at the ceiling. “Hey, Mugear! Keep on shooting and maybe you’ll actually hit something!”

There’s a reprieve in the torrent of gunfire, which makes Russell blink, his ears ringing in the sudden silence. He hears the crackle of a transmutation. Then there’s an enormous explosion as something huge and heavy connects with the pillar several feet over Russell’s and Ling’s heads; on impulse, Russell hooks an arm around Ling’s neck and yanks him down to the floor.

“Is that a fucking cannon?!” Russell yells, as Ling twists out from under his arm to get a look.

“Looks like it,” he answers, his voice maddeningly casual, though there’s visible tension in his eyes and shoulders. “He doesn’t mess around, does he?”

Russell transmutes a thicker, sturdier wall in the split second before another cannonball hurtles at them. With a few moments to relax, he struggles to catch his breath; his heart’s pounding like it’s trying to break free of his chest.

“Please tell me,” he pants, “you have a plan.”

Ling smiles fleetingly. “Of course.”

The next cannonball cracks Russell’s wall right down the middle. Before Russell can scrabble to create another one, Ling twists around and touches the back of his neck. A transmutation circle glows bright blue there; Ling brings his hands forward to press his palms to the ground, where another wall sprouts up to protect them from Mugear’s assault.

Russell blinks. “That’s new,” he says. He looks at the array drawn on Ling’s neck: three lines curving upward bisected horizontally by a fourth, barely contained by the circle inscribed around them. “Irregular array,” Russell comments. “Faulkner, right?”

Ling’s laugh trickles down his spine like warm water.

“You can’t hide from me forever!” Mugear shouts. Another cannonball slams into their protective wall; Russell hurriedly repairs it.

“He’s right,” he says, unable to keep the worry out of his voice. Ling, incredibly, is still smiling. “What are we going to do?”

“ _We_ ,” Ling says, “aren’t going to do anything but keep Mugear occupied.”

“What do y—?”

This time, the cannonball doesn’t crack their wall, though the impact does make it tremble. As Russell tries to decide whether or not to fortify it, his mind racing as he wonders what Ling is up to, the smile fades from Ling’s face; he looks over Mugear’s head and mutters, “Come on, come on…”

Another shot from the cannon. It was a mistake not to fortify their wall; as the cannonball collides with the rough-hewn stone, it doesn’t merely crack, but shatters into pieces, knocking both Ling and Russell several feet backward amid a shower of dust and debris. There’s no time to transmute another wall, or even to gain his bearings—Russell’s wind hasn’t even returned to him when Mugear stalks up, slow and easy, clearly anticipating putting the two of them—the State Alchemist who outwitted him and the imposter who dared to deceive him—in their places.

In the split second before Russell resigns himself to the defeat, he hears it. Mugear lifts his head.

“What the hell?” he mutters.

Rushing water.

Ling’s face splits into a grin.

Mugear can’t recover before the wall nearest the stairwell suddenly disintegrates, admitting a flood of water that spills into the foyer. For being so large, the room fills quickly: by the time Russell stands and hauls Ling to his feet, it’s up to Russell’s knees and Ling’s thighs. Mugear staggers. The torrent wets the gunpowder in his cannon, rendering it useless, and carries Ling’s Stone away.

“No!”

As Mugear lunges for the red shard, Ling seizes Russell’s wrist and pulls him toward the exit. At the same time, Russell hears a very familiar clanking of bronze. Fletcher emerges, sloshing through the flood and wielding a heavy rod, possibly transmuted from the now-ruined staircase. With one solid whack to the temple, he knocks Mugear right out; he slumps over like a sack of bricks.

Russell stares, caught between shock and relief. There’s motion inside Fletcher’s chest, and a small hand pokes out to undo the leather fastenings and unhook his breastplate. When it opens, Mei beams at them from inside Fletcher’s armor. “Hi,” she says cheerfully.

Russell huffs out a startled laugh. Ling smiles warmly at his sister.

“You’re an evil genius,” he tells her.

“We transmuted the pipes, Brother,” Fletcher explains, hoisting Mei up to his shoulder; the water nearly reaches her shoulders now. “It was Mei’s idea. Don’t worry, we got all the servants and other people out already.”

“Incidentally,” Ling says, “we should probably leave, too.”

Russell looks down. Mugear’s head is nearly covered; hurriedly, he leans down, gets an arm under his shoulders, and hoists him in a half-upright position, though he nearly buckles under his weight. “A little help?” he says to Ling, who looks dubious.

“Do we _have_ to?” It’s almost a whine.

“Yes,” Russell bites out. “We have to.” Besides, the idea of Mugear locked away, defeated and destitute in a lonely jail cell, appeals to him much more than Mugear drowning in his own mansion. Sighing dramatically, Ling comes over and supports Mugear’s other side. The five of them—Russell, Ling, Mei, Fletcher, and the unconscious Mugear—rush for the exit.

Outside, the overflowing water has turned the once-neat gardens around the manor to thick, sopping mud. Mei and Fletcher overlooked nothing: no sooner than Russell wonders if they’ll inadvertently flood the town does he notice the deep ditch around the property, carved right where the hill starts to slope down to the rest of Resembool. The signature of alchemy is obvious. Russell glances up at Mei, still sitting on Fletcher’s shoulders with her legs around his neck.

“Well, I’ll be,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t think Ling got all the alchemy talent, did you?” she asks him. She tries to sound annoyed, but Russell can see her fighting a smile.

“That’s right,” Ling says, grunting a little under Mugear’s dead weight. “Mei here got the natural gift for alchemy—and the cleverness—and I got the devastating good looks.”

Mei snorts.

It’s no mean feat traipsing downhill with Mugear’s body slung over Russell’s and Ling’s shoulders. Halfway to town, Fletcher lends a hand, Mei hanging on tight to his helmet so she doesn’t fall off. Russell drops to his knees the moment they reach the outskirts, clutching an awful stitch in his side; Fletcher gently puts Mei down, and Ling stares down at Russell with his hands on his hips, panting heavily, but still looking expectant.

“I’m waiting,” he says.

“Are you now.” Russell looks behind him. “Thank you, Fletcher, Mei.” When he doesn’t add on, a smirk tugging at his lips, Ling makes an exaggeratedly indignant noise.

“No thanks for me?”

“Did you actually do anything?” Russell asks, tilting his head in an imitation of Ling. “Our siblings took care of Mugear and the mansion and I lugged most of his weight down here, so—no, I think not. No thanks for you.” He smiles sweetly.

“Ugh! You really _are_ a child,” Ling grumbles.

“What did you just call me, _imposter_?”

It continues like that all the way to the police station: Ling and Russell trading insults, Fletcher sighing long-sufferingly, and Mei skipping ahead of them, a clear weight off her shoulders.

* * *

At Kaumafy’s train station, Russell finishes tipping the carriage driver and joins Fletcher, Ling, Mei, and Lan Fan at the platform. He can see the lights of the train in the distance; strange, he almost feels wistful as he watches it pull in, then turns his gaze to the small group come to see them off. So used to relying on Fletcher alone, putting him above all else, Russell isn’t used to having friends. It’s a sad thought to think he’s finally made some only to leave them immediately. Mei insists it doesn’t have to be a permanent goodbye.

“You’ll write us, won’t you?” she says. “You can even come visit. Next time you do, Resembool will be flourishing, I promise; you won’t even recognize it.”

“It might not happen that quickly,” Lan Fan tells her. Still, she doesn’t look too stern. She didn’t object to working with the imposters as much as Russell thought she might. Keen to expand their livelihood, more relieved than their pride will let on that the truth is out at last, both she and her grandfather accepted Ling’s and Mei’s offers of help pretty quickly, if still cautiously. Lan Fan and Fu are brusque, but fair; they’ll give Ling and Mei the penance they deserve without being downright nasty, like the rest of Resembool right now, eager to blame anyone for their misfortune but themselves. Lan Fan is right—it’s going to be a slow process getting the town on its feet again, even with Mugear in prison and all hope for a Philosopher’s Stone down the drain. Luckily, Ling and Mei seem more than up for the task. Russell looks forward to seeing the change they’ll bring to this place.

While Mei and Lan Fan compare their alchemy skills, Fletcher chiming in here and there when each of them tries to sell herself short, Ling taps on Russell’s shoulder. “Can we talk?” he asks. “Alone?”

Russell fights a thrill of foreboding. Old habits die hard; though they’re cordial now, half his interactions with Ling have been violent. Still, he shrugs his agreement and follows Ling to the relative privacy behind the ticket booth.

“What is it?” he asks, when Ling doesn’t talk at once. He looks more uncomfortable—and more contemplative—than Russell has ever seen him, eyes downcast and teeth worrying at his lower lip. Yet, when he raises his face, all the tension is gone. He looks almost startlingly genuine. It’s quite a change of pace.

“I wanted to thank you, for what you said in that cellar,” he tells him. “For what you shared with me. It really helped, and you didn’t have to do it. It’s something I’ll carry with me as I start fresh here.”

“Oh” is all Russell can say. He wasn’t expecting that. Against his will, his face gets a little warm. “Um. Thanks, I guess. I mean—it was no problem.”

“I really admire you, you know,” Ling continues. “Always have. Ever since I first read about you. Of course, I don’t have the skill to be a State Alchemist like you—”

“Trust me, that’s a good thing,” Russell can’t help but mutter. Ling huffs out a laugh.

“—but even so … you’re kind of inspirational, Russell. You’re proof that talent and hard work can get you places no matter your circumstances. And if you’ve screwed up really bad in the past like you say, well, that kind of makes you even better. Because you’ve overcome it now, haven’t you?”

He can’t resist a glance at Fletcher, chatting amiably with Lan Fan and Mei still. He should be smiling, bright-eyed and laughing and talking with his hands, a habit he picked up from their mother. Instead, though he sounds happy, a tinny echo clings to his voice; the armor cuts a stark, lonely figure against the setting sun.

“I’m getting there,” Russell says.

Ling smiles. “I look at you, and I think I can get there, too,” he says. “I think there’s more to me, to all of us. I think I can do anything I set my mind to.”

For some reason, it’s hard to act smug; the praise flusters him instead, so that Russell looks down at his shoes and hopes the dying light hides the color in his cheeks. He half-wishes Ling would just attack him again, eager to kill whatever strange thing he’s feeling now.

“And I’m sorry,” Ling adds. “For stealing your name. And, uh.” He gestures to Russell’s face. “Breaking your nose.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Russell says, the awkwardness driving him to irritation. He puffs his hair out of his face. “What, did you want to kiss it and make it better?”

He doesn’t snipe back like Russell expects. He doesn’t even lose that soft look to his face. They’re very close, Russell realizes, feet overlapping, sharing breaths of warm summer air. He doesn’t know what to make of it. He feels so incredibly awkward, so impossibly wrong-footed. Yet, neither does he want to pull away.

“Something like that,” Ling murmurs, and leans in.

_One-upped again_ , Russell thinks.

* * *

“You’re quiet,” Fletcher tells him, an hour later.

“Mm?” Russell, glancing out the window, turns and looks at him. “Oh. Sure, I suppose.”

“What are you thinking about? You’re thinking when you’re quiet like that.”

Russell gives a noncommittal shrug, twisting in his seat and drawing his knees up to his chest. Sitting across from him, Fletcher tilts his head.

“You think they’ll be okay, Brother?” Fletcher asks quietly. “Mei, Ling, Lan Fan—and the rest of them, too?”

“Oh, definitely.” His belief in this is such that Russell manages to smile through the numb shock that’s clouding him. The numb shock coming from—well. _That._ “Absolutely. They’ll be fine.”

Fletcher hums happily. Russell returns his gaze out the window.

“What did Ling want to talk to you about?” he asks after a moment, and Russell startles.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing,” Fletcher repeats. Russell muffles a curse, annoyed with himself. _Nothing_ is the least convincing false response to any question, ever—he knows this, so why did he say it? He really _is_ shell-shocked.

“Nothing that concerns _you_ , I should say,” Russell corrects himself. “There’s a reason he wanted to talk alone. ‘Alone’ denoting Ling and myself, not Ling, myself, and you.”

The intensity of Fletcher’s stare makes him blush.

“What are you hiding from me?” Fletcher asks, growing sly.

“Nothing!” Russell bites out, and curses himself again. When Fletcher only continues to stare at him, Russell trying not to squirm in discomfort, he snaps, “Let it go, will you? It was nothing. We talked about alchemy and he told me he admired me, that’s a—”

“He _admires_ you?” Fletcher repeats.

“You know, Fletcher, I’m something of a public figure, it shouldn’t be surprising that—”

“Does that mean he _likes_ you?” Fletcher asks.

Russell blinks. He takes a moment to absorb his meaning. Then he balks, horrified. “No, it does not!”

Fletcher puts a hand to his helmet. “It does,” he says. “It totally does.”

“You’re twelve years old. You don’t know anything.”

“I know that Ling likes you,” Fletcher says.

“And I know that you had best shut your mouth, proverbially speaking, before _I_ shut it _for_ you.”

“I don’t have a mouth for you to shut for me,” Fletcher tells him cheerfully. “I can’t be silenced. And you’re blushing.”

“I’m no longer listening to you,” Russell says. He lies down in his seat, his back to his brother. “I’m taking a nap.”

“Do you like Ling, Russell?” Fletcher asks.

“ _Goodnight_ , Fletcher,” he says pointedly.

“You do!” Fletcher’s practically bouncing in his seat, the little traitor. “You do!”

”You’re absolutely ridiculous,” he mutters.

“Russell has a crush!”

“Shut up, Fletcher!” he snaps.

It could be worse, Russell thinks, as Fletcher continues to pick on him, as he presses his hands over his face, which feels very warm under his fingers. Heavy in his breast pocket is the slip of paper Ling gave him, containing Lan Fan’s phone number and address so that they can keep in touch.

Things are looking up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, Abbie, back at it again with the timely updates. This is the part of the fic I've been wanting to write since I started, and here it is at last! My thanks to [Xyri](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath) for helping me with some pacing issues. Feedback is appreciated! Kudos are great, but _comments_ are super-mega- _ultra_ great. My workload is still small at school, so look for Chapter 6 not long from now!

_Dear Ling,_

Russell hesitates. Is _dear_ too affectionate a greeting? He’s fairly sure it’s standard writing procedure. Between the gentle rumbling of the train and having one functional arm at the moment, it’s too much hassle to erase either way; Russell decides to let it be.

_I hope this finds you well. I’m sorry that I haven’t written much these past few weeks. I’ve been busy._

It isn’t even an understatement, but the wrong word entirely. The events of the seven weeks since he left Resembool may have been as chaotic and time- and energy-consuming as “busy” suggests, but the word lacks any connotation of being eye-opening, horrifying, and, quite frankly, life-altering. Even these phrases, while closer to the truth, don’t summarize it as well as Russell would like. The reality is that what he’s seen and learned since he returned to East City is beyond words: too enormous, too equally incredible and terrible to be quantified by the puny Amestrian language.

Sometimes, sitting by himself somewhere or lying awake at night, Russell still thinks it might not have happened. Numbness settles over him, infecting his mind with doubt and disbelief that he didn’t invent the entire thing, that it isn’t real. That nothing is. For all the bliss that might come with forgetting, however, it isn’t something Russell can afford to do, so he reminds himself as often as possible lest he make the irreparable, irredeemable mistake of falling back into old habits.

After he resettled in East City, pleased with his new friendships but ultimately disgruntled at having met another dead end, Russell, at long last, made a breakthrough in his search for the Stone in the form of an alchemist-doctor called Tim Marcoh. He disappeared before Russell could properly question him, but fate continued to smile on him, it seemed: Marcoh left behind an elaborate journal documenting his own research on the Stone, which Russell and Fletcher quickly unearthed and decoded. The irony of it—three and a half years since the mistake that cost them their bodies, half of which they’ve spent actively searching for the Stone, and there lay the key to the unsolvable puzzle, yet it wasn’t hope or relief or joy that made their fingers shake or Russell’s chest heave. It was horror. Pure, unadulterated horror. The Philosopher’s Stone, the would-be reward of nearly four years of suffering, can only be created, so Marcoh wrote, with a sizable sacrifice of human lives.

That would have been enough. That would have jarred Russell so thoroughly that he’d still be reeling now, a month and a half later. Instead, in their desperation to prove it true—or false, clinging to hope with white-knuckled fingers like the fools they sometimes were—Russell and Fletcher sought Laboratory 5 in Central, the supposedly shut-down lab where Marcoh had worked. It was not, in fact, shut down, but it was no longer operated by the military, either. Instead, humanoid beings who called themselves homunculi—tall, smirking Lust; sly, shifty Envy; enormous, infantile Gluttony; Russell remembers them very clearly, having seen them in his dreams long after that brief encounter—fiercely guarded their own research on the Philosopher’s Stone there. Homunculi are even more legendary than the Philosopher’s Stone, thought to be hypothetical at best and impossible at the most. Yet, there they were, brutalizing Russell when he tried to fight them and nearly killing Fletcher when he still struggled.

“Watch your step, Evergreen,” Lust said, her voice low and dangerous, a razor-sharp fingernail mere centimeters from Fletcher’s blood rune. “You’re starting to learn too much, hon. As of now, you and your brother are too valuable to eliminate, but that can change if you’re aren’t careful. Heed this. _Know your place._ ”

Envy attacked him from behind, knocking him out cleanly with an elbow to his temple. Russell woke up in the hospital with a startled scream in his throat, tears on his cheeks, and Fletcher’s name on his lips.

His physical injuries healed soon enough, but the emotional scars remain still. The trauma and revelations did the impossible: it convinced Russell—stubborn, unyielding Russell—to change. The Philosopher’s Stone isn’t the solution he’s spent years hoping it would be. Russell refused to wallow in despair for long; determined as ever to restore Fletcher, to find a new way to do it, he and Fletcher traveled to Dublith in South Amestris in search of an alchemist there who publicly renounced the Philosopher’s Stone, hoping she might be able to help. Instead, in Dublith, Russell met another homunculus, this one named Greed. As avaricious as his name suggests, Greed kidnapped Fletcher in the hope of gaining knowledge on his invincibility, wanting it for himself. Russell and Fletcher escaped him without serious injury, but Russell’s automail arm was badly damaged in the fight. In light of everything, the injury’s even more frustrating than it would have been: already forced to essentially redo two years’ journey, now he’s several more steps behind square one.

These aren’t, however, things that Russell can put in his letter. It’s not Ling he distrusts, but the postal service: government-owned and operated, with more reason now than ever to peek at Russell’s mail, they’d go ballistic if they saw such important military secrets in his letter to a civilian. He wouldn’t care, except that he needs to keep the military off his case for now. Better to leave the letter vague and simply fill Ling in when he has access to a phoneline he can be sure isn’t tapped, far away from any government outpost.

_I’ve had a lot to deal with—a lot to stomach—but all in all, I’ve been doing all right. Fletcher is_

Russell stops abruptly. He’d meant to end that with _also doing well_ , but over his game of solitaire, Fletcher is watching Russell write a little too intently. Russell would bet the entirety of his research account that Fletcher’s trying to read his letter upside down.

_Fletcher is a nosy, obnoxious brat who needs to mind his own business_ , Russell writes.

“I’m not obnoxious!” Fletcher protests.

“Sure you’re not,” Russell says. “Quit eavesdropping, then.”

Fletcher mutters something about not being able to help it, which is a lie if Russell’s ever heard one. He shakes his head and returns to his letter.

_But he’s also faring well. What about you? I hope for your sake that you’ve had a quieter few weeks than I have. How’s Resembool? Are the people there still giving you a hard time? (It’s not wholly undeserved, you know.) What have you been up to?_

“Don’t forget to ask about Mei and Lan Fan, Brother,” Fletcher chimes in.

“I mean it, Fletcher!” Russell snaps. He tugs his paper closer to his chest and hunches protectively over it. “Cut it out!”

He does feel the tiniest, _tiniest_ bit guilty that he’s only giving Lan Fan and Mei a mention, whereas Ling gets pages and pages, but can it really be helped? He and Mei don’t have the same connection that he and Ling share. He’s tried twice to post individual letters to Lan Fan, with poor results both times; if Lan Fan is an awkward, blunt conversationalist, her letters are even more short and stilted. Russell made the terrible mistake of trying to pen that second letter in Eastern Command’s cafeteria a few weeks ago, where Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes—like Russell’s dear, sweet baby brother is doing now—read it across the table.

“Are you writing a girl?” he asked, leaning in excitedly.

Russell bristled. He’d prepared himself for his military peers to be exaggeratedly shocked that he actually made friends—his precociousness endears him to few his own age—but Hughes’ tone, though teasing, didn’t seem to point to that. After a moment of consideration, he said cautiously, “Uh, yes.”

“Really!” Hughes leaned in, if possible, even closer; his folded forearms now brushed the top of Russell’s letter. “How come I haven’t heard about this girl? Who is she? What’s she like?”

“Her name is Lan Fan,” Russell said slowly, bewildered by Hughes’ eagerness. “I met her a few weeks ago, and … she’s nice, I guess?” Once you get through a layer of prickliness thicker than fortress at Briggs, that is, but Russell supposes he likes her because he relates to that. His lackluster responses didn’t deter Hughes; on the contrary, he beamed brighter than ever.

“I’ll bet she is,” he said, leaning back in his own seat. He flashed Russell a conspiratorial smile, like the two of them had some fun secret between them. Russell, who felt distinctly out of the loop, merely scowled. He returned to his letter.

He barely finished his next sentence before Hughes spoke up again, sounding slyer than he had any right to be. “Is she a pretty girl, Russell?”

Russell stopped writing so suddenly he nearly broke off the tip of his pen.

“I haven’t thought about it,” he said shortly, and refused to do so now. What did it matter? Lan Fan is clever, persevering, and a kickass fighter; at fifteen and a half, she knows at least six ways to subdue someone twice her size with just her bare hands, and heaven help them if she has a knife. What does it _matter_ if she’s pretty? And there was Hughes’ tone, too—like he expected Russell to have thought overlong on Lan Fan’s beauty. As if. He doesn’t think of Lan Fan that way. Come to think of it, he’s never thought of a girl that way, though he’s caught himself more than once dwelling on Ling’s dark eyes and guileless smile.

Hughes didn’t relent, clearly thinking he was getting somewhere by riling Russell up. He must have thought the color in his cheeks was bashfulness and not agitation. “Come on, Russell, you can tell me,” he needled. “You like this girl, don’t you? You held her hand yet? Made her any—” he wiggled his eyebrows slyly, “—Xerxesian promises?”

“What the hell does that even _mean_?” Russell snapped out at last, and without waiting for an answer, he gathered his letter and his lunch tray, swung his legs over the bench, and stormed off. Hughes called after him.

“Come on, Russell. Russell! Oh, come on, I was teasing! Don’t take everything so personally!”

Lan Fan’s response to the letter, finished in the privacy of Russell’s hotel room, wasn’t remotely worth it. _I’m glad you’re okay. I’m good, too. Resembool is good. Grandfather says hello._ It’s so much easier to give her a few lines in a letter to Ling than to send her a letter of her own when she’s so—succinct, to put it nicely.

_Give Lan Fan and Mei my best_ , Russell writes. _I’ll try to call you soon, once I arrive at Rush Valley; my arm is in need of some repairs, and it’s silly to go out of my way to Xenotime when Rush Valley is already en route to Central._

Fletcher makes a disparaging noise that Russell’s certain has nothing to do with his cards. Russell exhales sharply through his nose.

“Brother, please. You know that’s not why you don’t wanna go home,” Fletcher tells him.

“Do you have _nothing better to do_ than snoop? It’s starting to tick me off.”

Fletcher hums condescendingly, which he definitely picked up from—

“Belsio probably isn’t mad at you anymore. You don’t have to avoid him,” he says.

Belsio. Who, just as Russell predicted, wasn’t the least bit thrilled when Russell revealed the crack Mugear’s bullet had left in the back of his automail leg. The damage itself wouldn’t have angered him; grudgingly accepting of the dangerous work Russell’s position requires, Belsio repairs damages large and small with no further complaint than the occasional muttered comment on excessive recklessness. Hearing that Russell went from Resembool to East City, however—not understanding, as he seldom does, that Russell couldn’t justify avoiding Colonel Mustang any longer—had him incensed.

“You had a _bullet in your leg_ and you didn’t come straight here?” His teeth were clenched, his eyes flashing as Russell sank slightly lower in his chair. “What’s the _matter_ with you?!”

The repair job consisted largely of periods of angry silence followed by more segments of this tirade, which ended on the frosty note, “If you want to be treated like an adult, then act like one and take care of yourself,” before Belsio stormed out of the room and ignored Russell for most of what remained of his visit. His goodbye when Russell left, just a day later, was still icy. Belsio is slow to anger, but he holds grudges like no one else when pushed to that point—Fletcher may call him immature, but Russell thinks it wise to give him a bit more breathing room before he goes to him with another injury for him to tend to. He hasn’t been back since.

To Fletcher, Russell only says, “Excuse you. I’m being practical.”

“By trading less time for more money? I don’t think it’s worth it,” Fletcher insists. “Plus, we don’t get to see him or Elisa.”

“Maybe in a few weeks, Fletcher,” Russell tells him, which does little to mollify him.

A whistle announces their arrival in Rush Valley as the train comes to a slow, stuttering halt. Russell hurriedly finishes his letter to Ling.

_Let me know if there’s anything that I can do for you, whether you need advice, money, an ear, et cetera. I hope things continue to improve in Resembool, and I’ll keep you updated on my own adventures. I_

Russell clenches his teeth. He can almost _feel_ Fletcher’s eyes on his letter; for God’s sake, he could at least be subtler about it.

_I’m going to remove Fletcher’s helmet, fill it with bread, and dump it by the nearest pond so that the birds can have at him._

“Hey! That isn’t nice!”

“It’s what you deserve, Russell says loftily.

_Take care. Yours—_

No. Absolutely not. Russell quickly and firmly erases that, removing all evidence of the faux pas under Fletcher’s watchful eye as the train’s doors open and its passengers begin to leave. When Russell shoots him a look, Fletcher gathers his cards in a messy pile, stands, and retrieves their bag from overhead.

_Regards, Russell Tringham_ , he signs it. There. Better.

“Here,” Russell says, sliding it to the edge of the tray table toward Fletcher. “Fold that for me, will you, and don’t look at it.”

Well, there’s no need. He already read most of it. All innocence, Fletcher dutifully folds it longways and helps Russell fit it into the envelope. After he addresses it, he and Fletcher follow the last stragglers off the train.

“Oh, come on. Don’t look so glum, Fletch,” Russell says to him, watching him shuffle his feet as they head for the town’s heart. Always a planner, he carries a list he made beforehand of automail retailers sorted by cost and quality; he has several he wants to investigate in person before he makes his decision. In the meantime, he’ll mail his letter. “Think of this as a little vacation.” After everything that’s happened, they certainly deserve one. “Rush Valley is a famous place! It’s the automail capital of Amestris!”

“I don’t care that much about automail and neither do you,” he responds. Stubborn kid.

“No. But do you know who likes automail?” When Fletcher doesn’t bite, Russell answers his own question. “Elisa. Elisa likes automail. Do you know what we could do? We could get a camera and take some pictures to mail her. That’d tickle her pink, don’t you think so?”

“Sure, Brother,” Fletcher says noncommittally, by this time lagging several feet behind him.

“Belsio might like to see it, too,” Russell muses aloud. Likely not; Belsio dwells little on faraway places that Russell can tell and while his seldom leaving his home is due to anxiety about public spaces, it doesn’t seem to bother him overmuch. He might enjoy a look at some other engineers’ designs, though Russell doubts he’ll be allowed to photograph them.

“Russell, come look at this!” Fletcher suddenly gasps.

“ _That’s_ the spirit, Fletche—what the hell?!” Russell blurts out, stopping dead beside him.

Fletcher stands in front of an alleyway. In that alley, nearly hidden by a dumpster, a boy Russell’s age lies sprawled on his stomach, his head and arms pillowed on a folded-up cardboard box. He’s eerily still: the red-and-gold tunic he wears, bunched up in the back from being unbuttoned in front, doesn’t shift with his breathing, and the muscles in his face don’t twitch even as gold hair falls over his eyes, the rest kept back by a few thin, intricate braids that meet at the nape of his neck in a longer, thicker plait. He looks very foreign, and not very alive. Russell instinctively takes a step back, not wanting to get close to a corpse.

“Is he dead?” he asks in a wavering voice.

“I think he’s just sleeping,” Fletcher says.

Sure enough, the boy snorts and shifts his head.

“Well, then.” As much as Russell loves to interact with unconscious, foreign-looking strangers passed out in alleys, his arm’s still in a sling and he rather likes having two. “We had best leave him to it.”

“We can’t do that!” Fletcher says sternly, before Russell can take two steps away from him. “He can’t sleep in an alley, Brother! It’s nasty and dirty, and there are muggers and other skeevy people and stray dogs that might pee on him!”

Russell can’t begin his spiel on how homelessness is an unfortunate reality of city life, how Fletcher is kind to want to help but powerless to make a significant dent in the epidemic, and how they can’t stop and render aid to every individual person much as they’d like to if they’re to get anything done before Fletcher marches over, squats down, and pokes the boy’s cheek with his finger.

“Mister? Excuse me, mister?” Fletcher says.

He wakes alarmingly fast. Within seconds, his left hand closes around something tucked into his side; he rises up on his knees and points the tip of an ornate-handled sword right over where Fletcher’s heart would be.

“No, no, no!” Fletcher says quickly, raising his hands. “It’s okay! I’m not trying to hurt you!”

Russell can’t quiet a sigh. So much for a vacation.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Russell sits across from that boy at an outdoor café and watches, caught between bemusement and disgust, as he wolfs down enough food to sustain a small army.

“He must have been hungry,” Fletcher says weakly.

“He must have been raised in a goddamn barn,” Russell deadpans.

All right, maybe it’s cruel to make fun. Russell knows well that determination, luck, and chance have given him more advantages than another orphan might have, particularly a disabled one; he’s seen poverty and hardship throughout Amestris in his travels and would never chastise a starving person for shoveling in food when finally provided with it. But—and this is wrong to assume, and he knows it—this boy just doesn’t _look_ impoverished. That tunic fits him very well, hugging his strong shoulders and slim waist without being overly tight; it was clearly made for him. The red material looks very rich, too, banded and interwoven with intricate gold threads that glitter under the afternoon sun. Possibly due to the heat—it’s nearing October, but in the south, it’s still quite warm—the tunic’s tiny gold buttons are undone, exposing a muscular chest and flat stomach that isn’t the least bit ribbed. Without sleeves to cover them, his biceps are also on display, well-defined and nowhere near thin-looking. If he _is_ poor, it must have been a recent thing.

Russell hasn’t gotten the chance to ask either way, of course. Every time he opens his mouth, his tablemate—his own too full to talk—waves his hand aggressively to quiet him. Russell’s patience is wearing thin; he hates to be left out of the loop, and there’s something haughty about this kid that’s gotten under his skin already. Fletcher is a much more gracious host, rushing from here to there to fetch things for him as ordered. When Fletcher gets him a glass of milk, from which he takes a sip before his face pinches in obvious, exaggerated disgust, Russell takes his chance.

“Why were you sleeping in an alley?” he blurts out. “Why are you dressed like that? Where are you from?”

“Brother, let him eat!” Fletcher says reprovingly.

Holy hell, if he eats any more, his stomach will surely burst. Muscular as he is, he’s still tiny, at least a head shorter than Russell and little around the waist—where does he _put_ it all? To Russell’s surprise, he doesn’t return to his food immediately; instead, he glances up, peering at him with eyes a bright, startling shade of gold, unlike any eyes Russell has ever seen. They’re beautiful—he can’t deny it—but coupled with that smirk, they look dangerous. He thinks of a Venus flytrap. The honey of his eyes lures you in, and then he catches you in the sharp teeth of his smile. He stays on his guard.

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” the boy says.

“I’m precocious,” Russell answers in a testy voice.

The boy continues to size him up. Then, in a bored, lofty voice, he says in quick succession, “Was tired, it’s comfortable, Xerxes.” He reaches for a dish of pasta and brings it close to pile some on his plate.

“You’re from Xerxes?” Fletcher repeats in wonder. “Oh, wow, that’s really neat! I don’t think I’ve never met anyone from Xerxes—have I, Brother?”

“People with Xerxesian blood, sure, but no one from Xerxes proper,” Russell tells him. Amestris’ foreign policy is strict, and with a reputation of peace to counter Amestris’ penchant for war, Xerxes interacts with it as little as possible, aided by the miles of desert between them. The few part-Xerxesians Russell and Fletcher have met in their travels hardly looked it; they had this boy’s warm, dark skin, but not the golden hair or eyes. The traits must be recessive. Right now, though, genetics are the furthest thing from Russell’s mind. “How did you—?”

“What’s your name?” Fletcher interrupts, something close to excitement in his voice.

The boy looks at him, slightly bemused. For those who don’t know better—and Russell tries to keep that the majority—it’s easy to assume that Fletcher is a tall, burly man to fill out that armor, hence the dissonance when they hear his high, soft voice. After a moment, after he takes a bite of pasta and licks the sauce from his lips, the boy answers, “Edris. Call me Ed.”

“All right, Ed,” Russell says, drumming his fingers on the table. “If you’ve finally eaten your fill—” he’s no longer swallowing everything in sight, and instead picks at the pasta with mild interest with his attention mostly on Russell, “—could I have some answers, please? If you’re from Xerxes, you must have come on foot; there are few other ways to cross the desert and you couldn’t have sneaked pass border patrol in any sort of vehicle. You _walked_ here. Which begs the question, why? You went to a bit too much effort to be here for sightseeing.”

“‘Precocious’ is damn right,” Ed mutters, almost to himself. To Russell, he says wryly, “Sharper than you look, aren’t you?”

A compliment wrapped in an insult. Russell chooses to acknowledge neither; he eyes Ed levelly, leaning forward with his good elbow propped on the table, while Ed leans back in his chair and surmises him similarly. For as relaxed as he looks, Russell’s certain that if someone crept up behind him, Ed could and would attack them in an instant—the sword he pointed at Fletcher hangs in a horizontal sheath at his waist, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. Russell isn’t concerned. His automail arm may be damaged, but it’s still usable. He could probably transmute before Ed draws his weapon.

The staring contest drags on, Fletcher hovering behind Russell uncertainly. At last, pushing aside his plate, Ed breaks the silence.

“Maybe _you_ can give _me_ some answers, uh—?”

“Russell.”

“Russell,” Ed says. “You seem smart. And you’re not a total prick; you bought me lunch, after all.”

“When did I say that I was buying?” Russell asks suspiciously.

Smirking, Ed reaches into the deep pockets of his cotton trousers, rummages theatrically, and then pulls them out for Russell to see. Empty. Not even a speck of lint.

“You little shi—” Russell forces himself to break off, steadying himself with a deep breath. It isn’t as if he doesn’t have the money to pay for Ed’s food. It’s annoying, but not inconvenient. There are more pressing matters. “What sort of answers are we talking about?” he asks in a measured voice.

Ed doesn’t respond at first. He continues to stare at Russell, his gaze as intense as ever; even as chills spread over his neck, Russell refuses to look away.

“I’m hoping you could tell me,” Ed says, quietly, “about the Philosopher’s Stone.”

There it is.

Russell lets his face betray no shock or unease, though he feels both. At least the latter makes sense; why should he be surprised that alchemists far and wide seek the Philosopher’s Stone? Xingese-born Wu Yao had heard of it, after all. If the stories traveled that far, it only makes sense that they reached Xerxes, too, rather than skirting around it. It’s Russell’s own fault—he’s stupid to forget that most people don’t know what he knows now, that the Stone is real, and forged with human blood. Powered by human lives. He’s more naïve still to think that will put off everyone who seeks it. It’s a repugnant thought; Russell thrusts it from his mind for now.

“Have you heard of it?” Ed asks.

The secret to a good lie, Russell has learned, is to add a careful sprinkling of truth. Not too little, and not too much. Pure denial will be sniffed out from miles away; too much honesty will put holes in your story. Naturality is equally important. You can’t seem overeager, but you can’t be standoffish, either. It’s a delicate balance only achieved by time and practice, and Russell’s silver tongue has been honed into a weapon all its own.

“I can’t imagine there’s an alchemist alive who hasn’t heard of the Philosopher’s Stone,” he responds. “It’s legendary. Of course, whether it’s just that—a legend—has been hotly debated for decades. Centuries, even. As they tend to do, the stories have all jumbled together into such a mess it’s nearly impossible, without extreme devotion, to separate fact from fiction. Most run-of-the-mill alchemists don’t bother with it. Too dangerous, too uncharted, you know.”

“And you’d call yourself a run-of-the-mill alchemist?” Ed asks him.

“I’m a little more skilled than _that_ , thank you,” Russell sniffs, making himself seem defensive enough that the opposite sounds truer.

It’s working. Ed’s shoulders have already slumped a little. “You can’t tell me anything special about it? How to find it, how to make it, what it’s capable of?”

Russell pretends to think hard, like he’s embarrassed at coming off as ignorant. “I mean—I’m sure I could think of something if you gave me a few moments,” he says.

Ed snorts. “Just fucking say you don’t know anything, why don’t you.”

“I do, too!”

“Sure.” Ed’s eyes travel from Russell to Fletcher, still standing behind him. “And you?” he asks.

Now Russell falters. Fletcher, unlike him, can’t tell a fib to save his life. _Shit._ There’s no way to help him keep up their charade up without revealing it outright; Russell can only sit and hope that he manages to not expose them.

“Me?” Fletcher asks, sounding startled. Ed nods slowly. His voice getting higher with nervousness, Fletcher says, “Uh—I don’t know anything about it either. I mean, I know some things. But not much. Nothing someone else wouldn’t already know. I don’t know anything … uh … _special_ , about the Philosopher’s Stone, like you said. Nothing special. Nothing weird.” He nods, like this will help him sound more convincing. For Fletcher, at least, it’s a good try.

Ed, of course, doesn’t buy it.

“Nothing,” he repeats.

“Mm-hm,” Fletcher says.

“Nothing at all.” Ed draws the words out, clearly teasing him. Fletcher’s hands start to shake with anxiety. “You’re sure about that.”

“That’s right,” he says timidly.

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Well, he is,” Russell snaps, unable to resist coming to Fletcher’s defense. If it damages their story, so be it. “We’re sorry, but we don’t have any of the information that you want. I suggest you go to one of the capital cities—South City isn’t far from here—if you want to learn more on your own, rather than pestering random passers-by who are kind enough to feed you.” In South City, of course, he’ll likely be detained for being an illegal immigrant, but the dent he just made in Russell’s allowance keeps him from feeling too guilty about that.

Ed trains those bright eyes on him; they flash in equal parts agitation and suspicion. Then, too fast for Russell to react, he stands in his chair and leaps onto the table, plates and dishes rattling violently as he sprints to Russell’s end with his sword out. He stops at the very edge of the table, feet firmly planted; looking over Russell’s head, he holds his sword threateningly as he glowers at his brother.

“You better tell me everything you know right fucking now if you know what’s good for you,” he snaps, suddenly fierce. “I mean it. I’ve come too damn far for you to stop me now.”

“If you know what’s good for _you_ —” Russell stands slowly, removing his arm from the sling as he does, “—you’ll put that thing away, get the hell out of here, and never talk to my brother like that again. This is your only warning. We don’t want trouble.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve fucking got it.” Ed doesn’t take his eyes off Fletcher. “Why don’t you take that armor off and fight me, asshole? If you’re so sure you don’t know anything—maybe a couple of nicks will get you talking—”

Russell kicks his chair back, steps firmly between them, and grasps the end of Ed’s blade in his automail hand.

“Brother—” Fletcher begins.

“If you want a fight,” Russell says, cold where Ed’s heated, but glaring just as fiercely, “you can fight me. Stay the hell away from my brother, pipsqueak.”

With a furious noise, Ed snatches the blade from Russell’s hand. Russell expects it to do little more than score the steel; instead, he watches with wide eyes as it slices cleanly through two of his automail fingers, severing his index at the second knuckle and his middle finger at the third. Ed grins when he sees Russell’s shock.

“Sharp, isn’t it?”

“I’ll show you _sharp_ ,” Russell snarls. He vaults onto the table and aims a low punch at Ed’s gut. It doesn’t land—Ed quickly backs out of the way—but that wasn’t Russell’s intention; he uses that moment of distraction to plant his hands on Ed’s shoulders and flip over his head, landing catlike on the very edge of the opposite end of the table. Before Ed can recover, he jumps down, sprints into the street, and twists on the spot to face him, hands raised and ready to come together in a transmutation. Ed, also turning, sneers.

“Thought this was a fucking fight, not a dance recital, ballerina!”

As Ed leaps down to charge at him, Russell claps his hands and slams his palms onto the asphalt, transmuting from it a long, thin sword not unlike Ed’s own weapon. Ed swings, Russell tries to block the blow, and he ends up recoiling in horror as Ed’s blade cracks his easily in half.

“Tempered steel,” he smirks, as Russell glowers. “Lucky you—there’s no one in the world who can beat me in a swordfight.”

“And I’m the best alchemist of this generation from here to Xing,” Russell snaps back, smirking himself now. “I don’t need toys to beat you.”

He strikes the ground with his hands again, this time transmuting a pillar of concrete that juts out and at him. Ed lunges away to avoid it, then leaps onto it and sprints down it toward Russell; his sword whistles near Russell’s ear as he ducks to dodge it. He tries to use his automail arm to block the blows as they keep coming—it holds up better than the fingers, but it takes precious little time for Ed to destroy what’s left of the plating, sparks flying as he nicks the wires underneath. Weaving and bobbing is hardly more successful. Russell’s nimbleness does nothing to help the fact that he’s used to right-handed opponents, which Ed is not; he earns more than a few painful scratches as his muscle memory works against him. Russell remembers to parry to the right only to meet the brick wall of a post office, which Ed promptly pins him against, resting that sharp blade mere centimeters from Russell’s panting throat.

“You ready to tell me what I need to know?” Ed asks, slightly breathless himself, though his eyes glitter with triumph.

With Fletcher out of earshot, Russell can spit back, “Fuck you.”

Ed brings the blade closer; when Russell swallows involuntarily, it cuts his throat. Sweat trickles into the wound and makes him wince.

Abruptly, Ed pulls back, letting his sword rest at his side. He takes several steps away from Russell. “No, you’re not a squealer, are you?” he says, raking his gaze over him. The pride Russell feels disappears in an instant as Ed turns and aims his predatory gaze across the street, where Fletcher still lingers anxiously by the café. “But I know who is.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare—_!”

Russell can’t take more than two steps toward him before Ed lifts his right hand and, inexplicably, snaps his fingers.

The sound’s still ringing through the air when two figures descend, one after the other, from the roof of the post office. They plant themselves firmly between Russell and Ed, who stalks, pantherlike, toward Fletcher with his sword still drawn; when Russell tries to run at him, the shorter of the guards aims a low, sweeping kick at his feet to break his stance, while the taller takes advantage of him staggering to pin his arms behind his back. It’s a shockingly strong hold. Russell twists around, snarling as he tries to free himself, and gets an eyeful of his captor: a young person clad entirely in black, hood, mask, and all, only their bright gold eyes visible. The smaller person seems older, marginally less agile and more lined around the eyes; one look into those eyes, though, sharp and narrowed, and Russell knows that their age will make them no less formidable. It’s two on one, and Russell’s automail arm is mere moments away from a serious malfunction.

He smirks. He’s faced tougher odds.

If these are bodyguards, as they seem to be, they likely have padding under their clothes, protecting their organs and other vulnerable areas. In that case, he’d be stupid to strike their chests or stomachs as he’d usually do. He’ll need to play dirty, get creative—aim for their backs and faces, use his elbows and knees and heels. Trip them up, keep them unbalanced. He might get in a crotch shot if he’s lucky. It’s low, sure, but when Fletcher is threatened, all bets are off.

Russell drives his automail heel into the top of his captor’s foot. He—Russell assumes he; the chest feels flat against his back—feels the steel through his boot where he wouldn’t have felt flesh and bone; he doesn’t release Russell, but his hold weakens enough that Russell can break it by shoving his elbow up into his jaw. He backs up several paces, wanting space to transmute. The shorter person—man?—doesn’t give him the chance. Lunging forward with startling speed, he grips Russell’s forearm before he can bring his hands together and attempts to swing him bodily into the post office’s wall. Unlike with Ling in Resembool, Russell is prepared; he plants his automail foot onto the wall to brace himself, uses that momentum to volley up and over the guard’s head, and takes advantage of that split second of surprise to shove _him_ against the brick instead, his forearm plastered across his back.

His partner appears in seconds. He jabs two fingers just above Russell’s left hip, producing a startling thrill of pain, and then hooks a strong arm around his neck, dragging him away from the other guard. His back still smarting, Russell turns to drive his automail elbow into the guard’s side. The blow just misses the body armor to meet soft flesh, making the guard stagger, but at the cost of a painful jolting running up Russell’s arm. He watches with some horror as the prosthetic goes suddenly limp.

Free from Russell’s hold, the older guard darts forward and strikes Russell’s left shoulder just below his collarbone—not a punch, but a two-fingered jab like his partner’s. The jolt of pain brings with it tingling numbness that spreads down Russell’s fingers; his arm feels too heavy to move. The younger guard once again attacks him from behind, one arm wrapping around his ribs and the other encircling his throat, squeezing roughly. His steel arm useless, his flesh arm numb, Russell rears his head back sharply. He misses his target, the guard’s nose, but the back of his head collides painfully with the bone over his eye and makes both of them stagger. Russell stumbles away from the pair and shakes his left arm as best as he can, desperate to get the feeling back. He won’t win this fight without some alchemy, and he can’t transmute without his hands.

Perhaps from watching him spar with Ed, the guards seem well aware of this. He regains enough feeling to clap, but can’t transmute anything before the two run at him, forcing him on the defensive. He sprints around the post office into an alley between it and another building, where his eyes quickly spot a ladder to the post office’s roof. Dangerous to climb with one working arm, probably, but what choice does he have? Russell scales it as fast as he can, hair whipping around his head as the breeze suddenly picks up. He touches his left palm to his unmoving right, presses his hands to the concrete rooftop, and transmutes a makeshift lance, holding it awkwardly in his left hand.

The younger guard arrives first. His speed forces Russell to use his weapon as a shield; he doesn’t want the guard to get near him, seeing his pointed fingers and knowing he’ll try to immobilize Russell by jabbing more pressure points. The guard weaves and bobs with finesse, fighting for an opening. When his partner reappears, a hand in his shirt, Russell takes a desperate measure—he thrusts the lance at Ed’s young bodyguard with the hope that he won’t suffer too major a wound. Luckily, his reflexes are excellent, and he ducks to avoid being impaled through the throat. The point of the spear catches the top of his hood instead, dragging it back several inches before tearing a hole through the material. As it falls loose, so too does the mask covering his nose and mouth; they must be connected. Russell can’t help but gape. The face revealed isn’t a young man’s at all, but a girl’s, surprisingly delicate-looking and framed by two pieces of long, blond hair.

Russell yanks back his weapon, and the girl swings her leg up and brings it down over the handle, snapping it deftly in half. The other guard appears at Russell’s back, pinning him with his arms under Russell’s and his hands behind Russell’s head; kissing her fingertips, the female guard lunges forward and aims a few quick jabs at his collarbones, sides, and tops of his thighs. Russell goes limp in the other guard’s hold. As he staggers, panting, the guard behind him brings a small dagger to his throat.

“Excellent, Winry,” the guard says—also a woman, Russell realizes, her voice low but unmistakably feminine. The girl, Winry, smirks at him, which Russell thinks is slightly unnecessary.

Carefully, the older woman’s knife still at Russell’s throat, the three of them maneuver back down the latter and return to Ed. He’s chased Fletcher half a block from the café—the street leading away from where their scuffle started is a mess of shattered concrete and asphalt, remnants of transmutations performed by either Ed or Fletcher. In the middle of the street, surrounded by a crowd of anxious onlookers, Ed sits atop Fletcher’s bronze armor, the arms and legs sliced clean off, the torso riddled with holes. Fletcher’s helmet is in his right hand; he balances it casually on his fingertips like a ball. The left hand, of course, holds his sword. His slow, creeping grin of triumph when his guards march Russell up is nearly feline; Winry and her companion might have caught Ed his dinner.

“Tell me you didn’t—” Fear and horror choke off Russell’s voice. Ed couldn’t have punctured Fletcher’s blood seal, the rune that binds his soul to the armor. It’s the only thing that can kill him. Ed’s smirk doesn’t reassure him, but then Fletcher gives a tiny moan from underneath him, making Russell’s still-weak muscles sag with relief. Fury quickly makes him tense again.

Ed tosses Fletcher’s helmet at Russell’s feet. When Russell meets his eyes, angry and resigned, Ed mouths two words: _soul bond._

Aloud, he says sarcastically, “Still a run-of-the-mill alchemist, are you, Russell?”

Russell merely glares in response. Ed slides neatly off Fletcher’s armor, sheaths his sword, and crosses over to where Russell stands with his guards.

“Before I start gloating,” Ed says, “anything you wanna say to me?”

Plenty. Nothing he can say with a dagger at his throat and Fletcher’s impressionable ears listening in, however. Ed sighs loudly when Russell only continues to glower. “Stubborn thing, aren’t you? What else is it you’re hiding? I really wanna know now.”

“Tough luck,” Russell spits out.

A harried-looking man parts the crowd as he strides up, outfitted in a police officer’s uniform—though he’s not military, fortunately. He surveys the damage done from here to the café and post office with wide eyes. “What is going _on_ here?” he gasps.

“These kids are raising hell, that’s what!” someone bursts out. “They’ve torn up most of Third Street!”

“And my restaurant!” This is the owner of that outdoor café, pink-faced and furious. He waves around a receipt nearly the length of his forearm. “Not to mention the twenty-four hundred cens they owe me for their food!”

The police officer looks from Ed to Russell, his eyes narrowing. “Disturbing the peace, destroying infrastructure, theft by fraud … these are very serious accusations, boys,” he says.

“On that note,” Ed responds, his smile turning impish. He jerks his head a little; at his command, Winry steps away from Russell, her partner copying the action and stowing her dagger. “I should scarper. Places to go, people to see, you know.”

“No!” Russell snaps. “No! Screw that! You’re not taking off and leaving me to deal with—”

“Oh,” Ed says, “ _I am_.”

Russell can only gape at him, frozen in his shock and indignation, as Ed beams, pats his cheek, and then, completely seamlessly, sprints past the crowd and disappears, his guards at his heels. The police officer looks in bemusement from him to Russell.

“What are you looking at _me_ for?” Russell says irritably. “Follow him!”

“You’re the one who tried to dine and dash!” the café owner snaps.

“What?! No! That was—!”

“He’s the one who tore up Third Street, too!” a mailwoman yells. “I saw him!”

“You don’t know what you s—!”

The complaints keep coming, the voices getting louder and harsher in their indignation; the crowd starts to move in closer. Russell inches closer to Fletcher’s armor, wanting to protect him.

“This is sticky,” he mutters.

As if on cue, his automail arm—now so damaged it’s hanging onto his shoulder port by mere slivers of battered steel—breaks off and falls to the ground.

“Well, shit,” Fletcher says.

* * *

After repairing the damages with alchemy, paying the restaurant tab and then some to get the owner to stop squawking in his ear, and flashing his State Alchemist’s pocket watch to at least half a dozen different police officers so that they’ll drop the charges (all while praying that Colonel Mustang doesn’t catch wind of this), Russell pulls Fletcher toward the nearest automail shop in a wagon he’s certain he was overcharged for. The proprietor and namesake of Atelier Garfiel stares at him for a solid ten seconds after Russell knocks on his door.

“Can you fit me with a new right arm by tomorrow morning?” he asks.

“It depends if I have one in your size in stock,” Garfiel answers. “And the rush job will cost you extra.”

Russell will reluctantly admit that he’s not very good with money, but he’s spent an exorbitant amount today even for him. Still, he has no choice but to agree to the fee. After today, he wants to get out of Rush Valley as soon as humanly possible.

The forces that be show a little mercy; Garfiel swiftly takes Russell’s measurements and produces a suitable arm from his storeroom. After cleaning away the mess at his shoulder port, Garfiel sets him up in a waiting room while he makes the necessary adjustments to the automail. Russell feels antsy and irritable; he glances at Fletcher’s armor, propped up in the corner with as many fragments as Russell could find, and guilt quickly enters the mix.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone with that idiot.”

“He didn’t hurt me much, Brother,” Fletcher tells him, despite being in pieces. He’s learned too well from Russell. “But those bodyguards—did they hurt _you_? You’re bleeding.” He sounds anxious.

Little cuts decorate Russell’s flesh arm and there’s a nick at his throat from Ed’s sword. He’s sore, too; between Ed and his guards, he’ll be black and blue tomorrow. Russell still shakes his head, wanting to reassure Fletcher.

“It’s nothing a few bandages won’t heal, and nothing _you_ need to worry about.” Despite the painful, humiliating, very trying day, Russell finds a gentle smile to give his brother. “I’ll fix your armor, first thing, once Garfiel finishes with my arm.”

The shop is so quiet that Russell hears the chime of the bell over the front door even down the hall. The empty front room and sign on the counter reading “BUSY—COME BACK LATER!” should turn the would-be customer away, but instead of another tinkle of the bell as they open the door to leave, Russell hears footsteps coming this way. Without knocking, someone turns the doorknob and steps into his room; Ed greets him with a smirk that gets smugger as Russell glares.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” Furious, he makes to get up from his chair.

“Russell, don’t!” Fletcher tells him urgently. “You can’t fight him again, not here, and you’re hurt!”

“He’s got a point,” Ed says lightly, draping himself over the opposite armchair, an ankle over his knee. “Who said anything about fighting, anyhow? I just wanna talk.”

“‘Who said anything about fighting?’ You! You did! You attacked my brother and I for no reason and left us to clean up your mess!” Russell bursts out.

“Not ‘no reason’; you’ve got information I want and need,” Ed corrects him, avoiding his second accusation as easy as anything. Russell seethes. “’Course, it’d be simple to just force it out of you now—like your brother said, it’s not like you could fight back—but, well, much as I’d _like_ to, I can’t kick you while you’re down. It’s against my principles. That gives us two options. Either you tell me now, or I wait till you get your new prosthetic and we go at it again. Since I’ll get what I want either way, I’ll even let you pick.”

The matter-of-factness of his tone, the blunt condescension in his words, the smirk still clinging to his lips—between the three, Russell nearly sees _red_ , anger tasting bitter and metallic on the back of his tongue. He can’t even speak for several seconds.

Then, in a flat, disbelieving voice—no longer mincing his words, no longer seeing the point—Russell says, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Ed’s brow knits in a furious scowl.

“No, I mean that genuinely,” Russell continues, before Ed can give a retort. “Who _do_ you think you are? What is it gives you the right to claim a legendary, centuries-old object for yourself, sneak into a foreign country to obtain it, and attack a pair of strangers when they won’t tell you anything about it? Regardless if I know any—and I refuse to tell you if I do—what makes you so entitled to any information I might have on the Philosopher’s Stone? Why do you want it so badly? Who even _are_ you?”

Red-faced in his own indignation, mouth twisting and eyes narrowing, Ed swings his legs over the chair in one deft movement and stands. For being so short, he suddenly emanates incredible authority; even Russell, whose respect for authority is minimal, can’t help but shrink the tiniest bit. If Ed notices, he doesn’t react to it, too furious himself now to act smug.

“I am Prince Edris Hohenheim of Xerxes, first-born son of King Van and his late wife Patricia and soon-to-be heir to the throne,” he says viciously. “That’s who the _fuck_ I think I am.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a shorter chapter, but an exposition-heavy one. Thanks to everyone who wrote me kind words about this fic, it means the world. ♥ Feedback is appreciated!

“Prince?” Russell repeats in a shocked murmur.

“ _Prince_?” Fletcher gasps, caught between similar surprise and blunt horror.

Ed nods curtly, still glaring down at Russell. For several moments, his brain still buzzing with the enormity of the revelation, Russell only blinks back.

Then he starts to laugh. Hard.

“Wha—the fuck’s so funny?!” Ed blurts out.

“You!” Russell manages. This isn’t the smug, subtle, quiet laughter he’s usually prone to; he’s _cackling_ , long and loud, his breath come in short gasps around the fits of giggles. Russell covers his mouth with his hand, which does little to quiet him. He soon feels his face heat under his fingers. “You! A prince! Blunt, rude, scrappy little thing like you! A freaking _prince_!” He keeps on laughing until his sides hurt, losing his balance and sinking lower in his chair as he cackles into his palm, while Ed glares fiercely and Fletcher chokes with horror.

“It’s not funny!” Ed snarls.

“Brother, stop!” Fletcher says, and it’s almost a moan.

Russell tries, but he can’t stop—he can hardly _breathe_ for laughing so hard. What’s the point in stopping, anyway? It’s hilarious. To see Ed’s face redden in anger and indignation, after all he’s put Russell through today, is its own reward. He laughs until he starts to choke, and carries on for several moments after that, all control lost.

“Fine,” Ed finally snaps, still glowering. “Fine. Keep on laughing. You snort like a fucking pig when you do, by the way.”

“Just ignore him, he doesn’t mean it!” Fletcher says desperately, the fear obvious in his voice. “We didn’t mean any disrespect, uh—Your Majesty? Your Highness?”

“His _Lowness_ , more like,” Russell snickers, around fresh giggles.

“ _Will you quit it_?!” Fletcher snaps at him, more heatedly than Russell’s ever heard him speak. That heat does what Ed’s anger doesn’t, and settles him. Slowly getting his breath back, Russell looks from Fletcher, shattered armor in a sad pile in the corner, to Ed, flushed and agitated. Russell slowly stands as Ed huffs and drops back into his chair.

“All right,” he says. “All right. _Prince Edris_. I suppose that makes sense; it certainly explains your clothes, and the bodyguards.” _And you being an entitled prick_ , he adds in his mind. His desire for an explanation and lack of automail keep him from saying this aloud; he’d only earn a stab from Ed’s sword, not the information he wants, and he doesn’t have a steel arm to block the blow this time. Ed only exhales sharply, his face pinched in his irritation. “What I don’t understand is why you want the Philosopher’s Stone as badly as you clearly do. Actually, if you’re a prince like you say, I understand it even less. What, do you want an alchemical augmenter to bolster your own power, keep your people in line?”

Ed looks so offended at the prospect that Russell’s respect for him increases, if only by the tiniest, most grudging amount. “Fuck you if you think I’m gonna use _fear_ to control my people,” he says acidly. “Hell, no, that’s not why I want the Stone. I’m not even an alkahestrist.”

“You’re not an—?” Russell goes over the afternoon in his head, trying to remember when he saw Ed use alchemy in his fight with Fletcher. He realizes with a pang that he saw no such thing. “You want the Philosopher’s Stone and you aren’t even an alchemist? Or alkahestrist; is that what you said? Is there a difference?”

“Fuck if I know,” Ed answers bluntly. Russell chalks it down to a simple translation error.

“So you aren’t an alchemist, and you want the Stone. Why?” Russell asks. “What is it you want? You’re royalty. Presumably, you have power, you have money—what, then? What is it you want?”

Ed doesn’t answer, gone stonily silent with his gaze on his shoes. Russell stares down at him.

“If you tell me,” he says after a moment, “I’m much more likely to tell you what you want to know. If you’ve done any research at all, you probably know this already, but the Philosopher’s Stone is a very dangerous object. Both my job—” he pulls the pocket watch from his trousers and holds it out in his palm, the silver gleaming in the low light, “—and my personal morals prevent me from telling anyone about it who I’m not absolutely sure isn’t seeking it for frivolous or unethical reasons. Or both.”

“If you’re with the government,” Ed says, meeting his eyes again, “can’t you arrest me or some shit? Why haven’t you?”

Russell supposes he could, or at least capture him and deliver him to someone with that authority. Beyond whatever he’s done to Russell, he’s certainly proved himself a danger to civilians. But then Russell wouldn’t learn what brought Ed here; he can’t deny he’s overwhelmingly curious. It also seems like a petty way to end this disagreement, even for him, and not to mention very hypocritical. Russell’s trust in and respect for the military is minimal, not helped at all by recent events—allowing them to fight his battles is something his pride can’t stomach.

“For the same reason you didn’t drag me home with you and let your father chop off my head when I called you ‘pipsqueak,’” Russell replies. “This is between us now.”

It earns a snort, but Ed does look the slightest bit less hostile.

“So spill it.”

Ed answers this with a long, ruminative silence. Just when Russell thinks he isn’t going to tell him, Ed sighs softly and says, “I don’t want the Stone for myself, Russell. I personally don’t give a shit about the thing. I need the Stone to give my father.”

Russell tries to hide how he twitches at that.

“Your father?” Fletcher says from the corner. “You mean, your father, the king of Xerxes?”

“I’ve only got the one,” Ed responds dryly. He sighs again, a bit more irritably. “Yeah. That’s who wants it, not me.”

“Why does he want it and why are you so desperate to give it to him?” Russell asks neutrally.

A third sigh, Ed’s gold eyes flashing, but he doesn’t bite out an immediate retort. Instead, he says, “Okay, let me back up some here. There’s context you’re gonna need or you’re not gonna understand. That okay?”

The sudden shift in his tone, now brusque but polite, makes Russell respond, “Sure,” before he even thinks about it.

“Okay. So, about four hundred years ago, my country was nearly destroyed. Like, wiped-off-the-map destroyed,” Ed tells them. “Might’ve been a natural disaster, like a huge sandstorm or an earthquake, might’ve been a plague of some kind, might’ve been the government was shitty and there was a huge bloody civil war—nobody knows, there aren’t any records of it, and it was way back in the past, so I don’t really care.” He takes a breath. “Point is, the country’s nearly killed off for good. Lot of people dead, economy’s shit, everyone’s suffering and struggling and the like. And everyone’s scared. But here’s the thing: Xerxesians? We’re smart. We’re survivors.” A small, proud smirk appears on his lips. “Nothing like a brush with death to make you wanna get your shit together. And that’s exactly what we did: everybody who was left buddied up for better or worse and collectively got their shit together, to make sure nothing like that happened again. And that was the beginning of modern Xerxes.”

Fascinating as the history is, being something most Amestrians aren’t privy to, Russell can’t help but wonder how it’s relevant to Ed’s story. He decides to let it be for now, since he’s so willing to talk.

“So during that whole period of ‘let’s get our shit together so we don’t all die,’ our ancestors laid down some pretty strict ground rules for the future,” Ed continues. “Whole fucking lot of them. Farming regulations, water usage, taxes, welfare, you name it. Most of ‘em are still in place today. And, of course, as you can imagine, having so much power, the monarchy’s got its own special rules to abide by to make sure they don’t fuck the country over. One of those rules is about children. Heirs.” His voice is getting quieter. “See, we don’t just learn from our mistakes, we learn from everyone else’s, too. We’re right next to Xing and we’re watching them fuck themselves over every generation with the fifty-odd heirs all at each others’ throats, clans always at war, constant turmoil. We looked at that and we were like, ‘Nah. We’re not doing that. Fuck that shit.’ So it was decided, way back four hundred years or so ago, that Xerxesian monarchs could only have one kid. One heir. That way there’s no siblings to fight over the crown once the monarch dies, see? No uncles scheming to get the crown, no cousins jumping in when someone kicks the bucket and trying to say the throne’s theirs through some convoluted bullshit. It’s very neat, very simple. Monarch, spouse, kid. Monarch, spouse, kid. Nice and linear.”

“But you’re not an only child, are you, Edris?” Russell murmurs. He notices Ed’s shifty eyes and remembers his introduction. “You called yourself your parents’ _first_ son. You have a younger brother.”

“Yeah. Almas. Al.” In three short words, Russell hears several things. Remorse. Bitterness. Regret. Pain. Unease. “He’s fourteen.”

Russell bristles at the revelation that Ed—despite his smallness—must be older than him, if he has a younger brother Russell’s age. He swallows it down, bitter as it tastes, knowing that this isn’t the time to voice it.

“How did that happen?”

“The same way most kids happen,” Ed deadpans, and makes a circle with one hand into which he inserts the other index finger, simulating procreation. Russell irritably bats at his hands.

“You know what I mean, smartass. If there’s a four-hundred-year-old law in place saying that your monarchs can only have one child, how did your father get away with having a second? Was it on purpose, or was it an accident he didn’t bother to correct?”

“I don’t fucking know. I’m guessing the second. My father doesn’t care that much about fixing or even confessing to his mistakes.” These words nearly drip acid, his brow knitting into a deep scowl. His expression softens the tiniest bit when he sighs. “And then once Al was born, my mother wouldn’t let anyone touch him. If my father didn’t care to fix his mistake, his advisors gladly would’ve taken care of it.”

The implications of this make the temperature in the room drop ten degrees. Russell can’t contain a shiver.

“But—but Al’s okay now, right?” Fletcher asks uncertainly.

“He’s fine, far as I know,” Ed says, his voice rough.

“Your father has two sons when he’s meant to have one. All right. I’m not seeing what this has to do with the Philosopher’s Stone,” Russell tells him.

“Will you wait a damn second? I’m getting there. Hopefully you see the issue here—the one-kid thing is supposed to make it easy to decide who’s heir, ‘cause there’s literally one fucking kid to choose from. Except, there’s two. He’s gotta pick somehow and no one agrees on how.”

“Wouldn’t he just pick the eldest?” Russell asks.

From the corner, Fletcher gives a delicate snort.

“Well, that’s what a lot of people think. It’d solve the whole conflict nice and easy, the say. But then you’ve got other people who don’t think that’s such a great idea. It’s not like we’re deciding what color wallpaper we’re gonna put in the new sunroom or whatever. We’re picking who’s gonna lead the fucking country,” Ed says. “And it’s not like this’ll be in ten years or anything. My father’s sick. He’s got alkahestrists and doctors giving him the best medical treatments our country’s got to offer, but he’s been given about a year to live. Maybe two if he’s lucky.” Russell notices that Ed doesn’t sound particularly remorseful about it.

“And he’s only recently given thought to his decision?”

“Kind of. He’s been saying for years that he’s got an ‘unusual opportunity’ that no one’s had and he wants to make the most of it. He doesn’t wanna pick randomly. He wants to pick who he thinks will be best for Xerxes—who he thinks will be the worthier ruler.” A shadow passes over Ed’s face, dark and powerful.

It finally starts to make sense. “And you want the Philosopher’s Stone to present it to him and prove that that’s you,” Russell says.

Ed makes a disdainful noise. “‘Course, I shouldn’t _have_ to do that. I’ve got half the country thinking the throne’s my birthright, plain and simple, and half the people who don’t think so think I’m just the better candidate besides. And they’re right. I’m smart. I think fast. I’ve got balls. And I care about my country and every person in it.”

Russell can’t say that he likes Ed, but the fire in his eyes makes him believe that this is true.

“And Al doesn’t?” Fletcher chimes in.

That shadow gets darker still. “Al _acts_ all sweet, sure. But he’s proven the only person he really cares about is himself.” When Russell quirks an eyebrow, Ed continues, “See, growing up, our mom wouldn’t let us think about who was gonna be named heir or any kind of political shit. She wanted us to have a normal childhood, you know? We were really close growing up, too, me and Al. I think I knew he wasn’t supposed to be born, but when I was a kid, it didn’t bother me; I was happy to have a little brother to play with and boss around and look after. I loved him.” There’s the slightest crack in his voice that Russell almost doesn’t catch. “And when our mom died…” Ed glances away from Russell, his gold eyes on the similarly colored sunset out the window. “I didn’t think about the whole two heirs thing growing up ‘cause my mom told me not to, but also ‘cause I didn’t think I had to worry about it. I didn’t think Al would _want_ to be king; he’s so passive. And I was born first anyway, so I didn’t think it mattered. I grew up thinking it was gonna be me. After our mom died, our father’s advisors mostly looked after us, and they slowly started keeping us apart more and more. I didn’t know what to make of it. Then, when I was twelve, I learned why. Al said he thought _he_ should be named heir and our father was gonna give him the chance to prove it—he was gonna make us vie for it.”

Ed gets up so suddenly that Russell startles, stalking over to the window and glaring out at it. Then, just as abruptly, he twists around to face him again. “You know how much shit we could’ve avoided if Al hadn’t done that? The country’s in an uproar. Everyone’s picking sides, Hohenheim’s getting flooded with letters telling him who to choose, and now he’s dying and he still hasn’t picked. He could croak any day now, really. There’s no telling. And if he does, and there’s still no heir? What the fuck’s gonna happen then?”

“And if the people are taking sides,” Russell says in a murmur, “then regardless of who your father chooses, there will be groups who take issue with his choice. There isn’t any way to please everyone.”

“Pinako—she’s my bodyguard—is older than my father. She guarded _his_ mother, who ruled before him, then him, and now me. She says there’s never been tension like this in Xerxes before,” Ed says quietly. He meets Russell’s eyes. “My country hasn’t had any conflict, internal or external, in four hundred years. If there’s blood because of this, it’s on Al’s hands. Not mine.”

Ed looks down at the floor, wiping his face with his hand as he exhales.

“Hohenheim’s dying. We’ve got a rough estimate of how much time he’s got left, but we can’t be sure of it. And knowing him, he’s gonna wait till he’s taking his last breath to make his choice to be sure it’s the right one. If I let this keep on like it’s been going, he’s gonna die before he picks and we’re gonna have a goddamn civil war on our hands. Al and I have been running around like idiots since he was eleven and I was twelve trying to prove ourselves to him, all ‘cause of Al’s pride and Hohenheim’s stupid social experiment. The Philosopher’s Stone’s supposed to have power like nothing else in the world. It can make limitless gold, pull people back from the brink of death … or make them immortal, some stories say. If I show him the Stone, and tell him all I went through to get it, he’ll get his head out of his ass and pick me to succeed him like he should’ve done from the beginning, and this whole thing will be in the past.”

“What’ll happen to Almas, then?” Fletcher asks softly.

Ed blows his bangs out of his face. “Hohenheim’s advisors are smarter than he is and think he should’ve made his choice about ten fucking years ago. Well, no. They think Al shouldn’t have been born period, and they’d rather have dumped him on someone’s doorstep without anyone knowing, _if_ they were feeling kind. But obviously, Hohenheim—and my mom, as queen consort when she was alive—had more power than they did, so they couldn’t touch Al and they can’t make Hohenheim’s decision for him. But they’re worried about the tension in Xerxes; it’s already as high as it’s ever been, like I said. In exchange for letting him take his sweet time picking an heir, they forced him to agree that once he makes his choice, whoever he doesn’t pick will be banished from Xerxes, so he doesn’t try and challenge the decision.”

He says it so baldly that Russell stares at him for several seconds. “You’re trying to get your brother banished?” he says, with slow anger rising in him. As an older brother himself, he can’t fathom the thought.

With similar fury in his voice, Fletcher cries out, “How could you do that to your own brother?!”

Ed whirls on him, his eyes flashing. “Shut up! Don’t act like you fucking understand, either of you! You don’t! You think I like any of this? You think I like the idea of getting my brother kicked out of the country and left to face fuck-knows-what? No! I don’t! But this is what he fucking signed up for! He didn’t have to claim the throne, but he did, ‘cause he cares more about saying ‘I told you so’ to everyone telling him he shouldn’t be alive than what’s best for Xerxes. It’s all about pride, for him. That alone would make him a shitty ruler. And he’s passive, too, he dallies just like our father does, and he’d run the country into the ground ‘cause he can’t make tough decisions like I can.” His gaze drops again; he clenches his fists, his shoulders shaking. “If he gave it up, just gave all of this up,” he says in a strained voice, “I’d let him stay. On my authority, I’d make it so he could stay at home and be my chief advisor and I’d forgive him for everything if he meant it when he apologized. But he’s not gonna fucking apologize, and he’s not gonna relent, so I can’t, either. And when I get the Stone, and he’s kicked out of the country, it’ll be no one’s fault but his. And I can’t worry about him from there. I gotta worry about my country. Al’s gonna reap exactly what he’s sown.”

“Let me summarize this, to be sure that I understand,” Russell says. He paces up and down the small room. “Your father was only meant to have one son. For reasons unknown, he had two. His advisors are on his case trying to get him to pick between you—preferably you since you’re the eldest and the one-child law dictates that Al shouldn’t have been born to begin with—but your father’s an opportunist who wants to see how things will play out, for the hell of it, essentially. Since your mother’s death, between your father and his advisors, you and your brother have been pitted against each other, not helped at all by the fact that Al has explicitly stated that he wants to rule, when you assumed that he’d relinquish his claim to you. Now your father’s on his deathbed and you’ve come to Amestris to find the Philosopher’s Stone and present it to him to prove to him that you’re worthier so that he names you his heir, knowing that this will result in Al’s banishment, while Xerxes is a step away from its first civil war in four centuries.”

“That’s the watered-down version, yeah.”

Russell huffs, his hand on his hip. “I almost regret asking,” he mutters.

“Well, you asked. And I told you. Now it’s your turn, alchemist.” Ed folds his arms. “What do you know?”

“I know that this isn’t the way to solve this conflict,” Russell answers. “It’s a temporary solution at best. You’ve said it yourself: regardless of who Hohenheim picks, no one will be totally satisfied. Say he names you heir, Almas is banished to prevent war, and war happens anyway. What then? Or Hohenheim dies before he can make his decision. Or you bring him the Philosopher’s Stone and he decides that it isn’t good enough to win him over. Xerxes did what it had to do four hundred years ago to ensure its survival, but you can’t apply four-hundred-year-old laws to the present, because then _this_ happens. What’s more, you and your brother are essentially running around for your father performing tricks for his entertainment.”

Ed barks out a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry, but when the fuck did I ask what you thought?”

“You didn’t, but—”

“You’re damn right I didn’t. Don’t you stand there and act like you understand better than I do, and don’t act like you’ve got a lot of fucking room to talk about my country being ass-backwards. Yeah, I know you’re thinking it. But I’m not from the country that invades and colonizes all its neighbors and starts wars like it’s fucking going out of style. Yeah, Xerxes has got issues, but it sure as hell isn’t your place to tell me that. So get off your fucking high horse before I knock you off.”

It’s his nature to want to argue, but Russell forces himself to stay silent, acknowledging the truth in Ed’s words. He exhales sharply through his nose and looks at the floor, a little pink in the face. “That’s fair,” he mumbles.

Ed snorts, but he seems mostly mollified. He unfolds his arms, settling his hands on his narrow hips.

“The Stone, then? What is it you’re hiding?”

What else can Russell do but tell the truth? It isn’t his way to leave his debts unpaid, never mind that Ed would skewer him for even considering it. But what does he say? How does he begin to tell Ed about the blood dripping from the object he seeks? Will Ed care? Will his father? Russell forcibly reminds himself that Ed’s right, that it isn’t his concern; he only needs to concern himself with fulfilling his end of the bargain and revealing to Ed what he knows, and hope that whatever Ed chooses results in the least amount of carnage, Amestrian or Xerxesian.

“Edris…” His tone, more plaintive than he intends, captures Ed’s attention. His sharp eyes meet Russell’s beseeching ones. “I … misspoke, when I called the Philosopher’s Stone dangerous. Or, should I say, I understated. The Philosopher’s Stone isn’t just dangerous. It’s deadly. And there’s no way to avoid that deadliness because it’s principle to its very nature. The Philosopher’s Stone is created and powered by human souls. Human lives.”

Ed’s mouth goes slack, his eyes widening in slow, dawning horror.

“Not five or ten lives, either, Ed. I’m talking cities’, _countries’_ worth of lives. _Millions_ of lives. It’s … it’s hard to fathom, I know,” Russell says, almost feeling sympathy for him. It can’t be much easier to hear from a stranger’s mouth than it was to read in a stranger’s hand, hope deflating as the Tringham brothers decoded his research. “It’s hard to imagine that anyone would create something so terrible. There are other ingredients, of course—I don’t know them verbatim, but I’ve read one alchemist’s recipe, and a close friend of mine succeeded in using aqua vitae to create a substitute—but the key ingredient, the secret to the magnitude of its power … it’s human sacrifice. Anything less creates a pale imitation, nowhere close to as powerful and doomed to fail soon enough. That is the truth behind what you’re seeking, Ed. The truth behind truths.”

“The truth behind truths,” Ed repeats softly, staring into Russell’s face. For a brief moment, his own expression is so horrified, so helpless in his shock, that Russell almost wants to reach out and comfort him. He may seek the Stone to spite his brother instead of to save him, but the knowledge must feel the same, the goal of his journey crashing around his ears just as Russell’s did.

Then, something else creeps over Ed’s face. Disbelief. Indignation. A slow, humorless smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re talking out of your ass again, aren’t you?” he says.

“What?” Russell blurts, startled. “No. No, I’m not. That’s the truth, Ed.”

“Sure it is. How do I know that? It’s not like you haven’t lied to me before,” he answers, clenching his fists again. That indignation shifts into anger, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

What’s more, Russell has no defense. He _did_ lie to Ed, never imagining that it might make Ed not believe him later.

“Look,” Russell says, his voice nearly a plea, “I know that I lied to you earlier, and I shouldn’t have done. But, as you can clearly see now, I had my reasons. I swear, I am telling you the truth.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ed tilts his head, and in a flat, cold voice, he says the two words that will be Russell’s undoing. “Prove it.”

“Prove—?” Russell thinks of Marcoh’s research journal, returned to the library, which burned down soon after. He thinks of Marcoh himself, vanished without a trace. Now it’s Russell who sounds helpless. “I—I’m not sure I can do that,” he almost whispers. “Th—there was a journal—”

“Okay, then. Let me see it.”

“It was destroyed,” Russell answers, shutting his eyes. “There was a fire—”

Ed barks out a harsh, unkind laugh. “Isn’t that a fucking coincidence!”

“It’s not a coincidence,” Russell says, injecting anger he doesn’t feel into his voice, “it’s the truth.”

“Who the hell wrote this journal? Wait, wait, let me guess: you don’t know how to get in touch with him,” Ed says nastily.

“He—he disappeared, yes—”

“You’re losing your fucking touch, Russell. Don’t look at me with those sad eyes; I’ve got you pegged. I see right through you. C’mon, haven’t you got anyone who can back you up?”

“Fletcher,” Russell says, turning toward him. “Fletcher can tell you that what I’m saying is true.”

“Yeah, because Fletcher hasn’t lied to me, too,” Ed retorts before Fletcher can speak. “Don’t act like he’s innocent. Don’t act like you’re innocent, either. You’re both liars and I’m not fucking fool enough to fall for it again.”

“There are officers in Central City who can confirm it,” Russell tells him, with obvious hopelessness in his voice. No way in heaven or hell will anyone in Central give Ed the information he wants. Seeing his face, Ed scowls further.

“You sure as hell don’t look like you believe that. By the gods, how _fucking stupid_ do you think I am?” he bursts out, stepping forward threateningly. His fingers inch toward his sword handle. “What makes you think you’re that much smarter than me, both of you?”

“I don’t think—”

At the same time as the faint _swish_ of Ed beginning to draw his sword, the door to the room opens, admitting Garfiel holding Russell’s automail arm. He stops dead at the sight before him, blinking.

“Is … everything all right in here?” he asks.

Ed replaces his sword with a dull click. “Fine,” he says bluntly.

“Are you a friend of Russell’s?”

“I’m sure as fuck _not_ ,” Ed says, glowering at him. His sword safe at his waist, Ed jabs Russell’s chest with a single finger, glaring up at him. “That’s where I’m going, then. Central City. And I better not fucking see you there with both your arms, Russell. I know you’re hiding something—”

“ _I’m not_ —”

“—and I’m gonna find out what it is,” Ed continues, talking over him. “I see you in Central, and I’m gonna make you sing like a fucking canary.”

With that, he turns sharply on his heel and stalks out of the room, brushing past Garfiel without a word to him. Garfiel watches him go, blinking in confusion.

“Uh,” he says.

“Please don’t ask,” Russell tells him. “Please.” With a shrug, Garfiel strides over, places a stool beside Russell’s chair, and begins attaching Russell’s arm to the shoulder port, humming idly under his breath as he connects wires and places screws.

He wants to blame Ed, to chalk up what just happened to his stubbornness and irrationality rather than any fault of Russell’s own, but it’s a pill that Russell can’t swallow. In his heart of hearts, he knows that it’s his fault. It was his mistake, his error, in lying to Ed to start with, and now he’s made an enemy of him. How dangerous _is_ Edris Hohenheim, he wonders? Something about those sharp, bright eyes makes Russell think that he’s only scratched the surface of him, and with so much on his plate, a new rival is truthfully the last thing that he needs. He can only hope, knowing it’s likely in vain, that this won’t be a problem later.

Garfiel clears his throat to get his attention. He holds a wrench in place, ready to turn it and connect the automail to the nerves in Russell’s shoulder.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Russell mutters darkly. His pain tolerance may be high, but it’s _because_ of this—few things measure up to the agony of reattaching automail, save automail surgery itself. He can only count himself lucky that it isn’t his leg, too; with just his arm, there’s a chance, if a slim one, that he might be able to sleep later. He huffs out a sigh, while Garfiel grips his wrench.

“On the count of three?” he says.

Funny, Belsio says the same thing when he reconnects Russell’s automail. Maybe it’s a universal thing. “Sure,” Russell grits out.

“One—two— _three_.” Garfiel twists his wrench.

Pain shoots from the point of attachment in all directions—it jolts down to his fingertips, screams in his shoulder, even pounds in the roots of his teeth, it feels like. Only Russell’s pride keeps him from crying out; he still throws his head forward, teeth tightly clenched, fingernails digging into the wooden arm of the chair as sweat drips from his forehead. Around his harsh, slow breaths, he hears Garfiel speak.

“Can I touch your arm? Would that be too much right now?”

“Probably,” Russell manages, shutting his eyes tight.

“Can you move it for me?”

Just twitching his shoulder produces such a jolt of pain that Russell has to fight a wave of nausea. Garfiel persists. “At least wiggle your fingers so I know everything’s shipshape?”

Slowly and deliberately, trying not to jostle anything else, Russell extends his fingers as best he can. Garfiel carefully exams the join of the arm and shoulder, pronounces his work satisfactory, and leaves him be to recuperate, as well as write up his bill. Russell drops his head onto the back of the chair, letting out a noise caught between a pained groan and a frustrated sigh.

“Are you all right, Brother?” Fletcher asks timidly.

“I’m fine,” Russell gets out. “I’m fine.” He huffs out a laugh. “It’s no big deal, it always hurts like a bi—a lot. I’m used to it.”

“If you say so,” Fletcher whispers. He doesn’t like to see Russell in pain, which is why Russell downplays it as much as possible. Before Russell can think of a suitable change of topic, to distract himself from the pain as well as Fletcher, his brother speaks first. “Russell, what are we gonna do about Edris? He said he’s gonna fight you again if you go to Central, but we can’t _not_ go to Central. We have to see the colonel.”

“I know.”

After a pause, Fletcher adds, even more hesitantly, “What’s gonna happen if the military sees Ed, looking like he does?”

“They’ll arrest him for immigrating illegally, more than likely.”

“Even though he’s still a kid?”

“I doubt that they’ll care.” In Amestris, childhood is a privilege, not a right, something Russell sometimes forgets since he sacrificed his so willingly. Ed won’t get a choice either way. There’s only so much that Russell could do to help him, too, even if Ed were willing. “He’s stubborn, but he’s no fool. Hopefully he’ll stay out of their line of sight and it won’t be a problem for any of us.”

“That’s not right,” Fletcher says, painedly, but with conviction. “That’s not okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It’s terrible and they’re terrible and I wish you weren’t part of them.”

_That_ startles him, making him twist to face Fletcher despite the pain it sends into his arm. The outburst didn’t seem planned, but Fletcher doesn’t seem repentant, either.

“I’m not part of them,” Russell answers at several moments. The silver watch weighs heavily in his left pocket as he says it. “This is an arrangement of convenience only. I don’t condone them, I don’t support them and I certainly haven’t sold my soul to them. That—makes it better, somehow.”

“Somehow,” Fletcher repeats softly, sounding slightly dubious.

_I did it for you,_ Russell almost replies. _I don’t like this any more than you do, but all of it’s for you. Please, you of all people can’t lose faith in me now._

He holds his tongue, though, unwilling to defend himself, and they sit in silence until Garfiel returns with a glass of water, painkillers, and Russell’s bill.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone's kind words! They're part of what keeps me cranking out chapters. :') Your feedback is my lifeblood!

Russell exhales sharply. He clenches his fist, the stiff glove tightening around his automail knuckles, lifts his hand, and—with the foreboding of a man on death row—raps three times on the door in front of him.

“Enter,” Colonel Roy Mustang says on the other side, cool as ever.

With another, more irritable sigh, Russell twists the knob and strides into the office, shutting the door behind him. Mustang watches him impassively from behind his desk as he walks up; at his right, First Lieutenant Hawkeye stands even more solemnly, her features in their usual mask. Mustang’s dark eyebrows lift when Russell, composed as can be, stops in front of him, his hands folded behind his back.

“You have a report for me?” Mustang says.

“Of a sort,” Russell answers. Mustang’s eyes are so narrow that when he squints, they nearly shut altogether. “I’m reporting that I’ve returned to Central safely and will resume my research posthaste.”

“You traveled to Dublith to meet with the alchemist Izumi Curtis about verifiable alternatives to the Philosopher’s Stone, or so you told me,” Mustang says. “As I may remind you, Evergreen, lying to your supervisor can be considered treason.”

“But I didn’t lie, did I?” Russell says, gritting his teeth against a snarl. It’s one of Mustang’s favorite retorts, having learned early on that Russell has a certain talent for bending the truth to fit his needs. The threat terrified him at thirteen; now, a year and a half later, it’s little more than an annoyance. “While I intended to meet with Curtis, things panned out differently. Surely you’ve been informed.”

“So you were sidetracked,” Mustang drawls.

A vein pulses in Russell’s temple. “My brother was _kidnapped by a homunculus_ ,” he shoots back, clenching his hands behind his waist. “Who then injured me when we fought, forcing me to go to Rush Valley for automail repairs.”

“You couldn’t have had your automail repaired in Dublith so as not to abandon the task at hand?” Mustang asks dubiously. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or would you have torn up half of _that_ town, too?”

Evidently, he _did_ hear of Russell’s exploits in Rush Valley. Against Russell’s will, a flush creeps up his neck—unmissed by Mustang, whose smirk becomes a sneer.

“That wasn’t me,” Russell bites out.

Rather than acknowledge this, Mustang consults a document on his desk. “On an _unrelated_ note,” he says, meeting Russell’s eyes as he lays a gentle, perhaps ironic stress on the word, “a young man was arrested this morning for having entered the country illegally from Xerxes. Do you know anything about that, Evergreen?”

“Xerxes?” Russell repeats, raising his eyebrows. Of course he knows immediately that it must have been Ed; despite their tumultuous meeting the other day, guilt churns in his stomach. He refuses to let it show on his face. “Why would a Xerxesian person come here? I always thought that Xerxes thought little of us.”

“He mentioned your name,” Mustang says flatly.

Goddamn it.

“As well as the Philosopher’s Stone,” he continues.

God _fucking_ damn it.

Mustang leans back in his chair, his fingertips touching. “Two years since we met, Evergreen,” he says in a low voice, “and I must admit, I still don’t understand you. A known illegal alien causes extensive property damage and puts civilians in danger and rather than arrest him as is your duty, instead you share with him valuable military secrets and send him on his merry way. Can you imagine the havoc he might have wreaked had we not caught him? Or the headache I’ve suffered covering for you yet again?”

“Poor you,” Russell responds, before he can stop himself. Mustang’s mouth twitches.

“Help me understand you, Evergreen. Unless you’re thinking as I am that it might be easier to court-martial you instead.”

“I think you already understand me, Colonel,” Russell tells him. “You understand that I’m not like you. This isn’t my life; this is a stepping stone to reaching my goal, nothing more. You want to sap me dry and I’ve told you repeatedly that it’s not going to happen. You can’t have all of me. I won’t give it to you.”

It doesn’t have the desired effect: the slightest flicker behind Mustang’s black eyes is his only acknowledgment of the greater implications behind these words. Instead, he merely sighs and threads his fingers together.

“I think it’s time I remind you,” he murmurs, “where your loyalties lie, Russell.”

Russell says nothing.

“You may cling to your ideas of independence, but when you put on that uniform, you abandoned your selfhood just as I did—as everyone else did. You signed yourself away, Russell Tringham. You belong to the military, mind, body, and soul. Roll your eyes if you want, sneer at me,” he adds with the slightest hint of displeasure as Russell’s lip curls, “but you had best learn that sooner rather than later. You insist on being treated like an adult, but your attitude tells me plainly that you hope your youth will shield you from all consequences. I promise, this will be the last time. Is that clear?”

He’s nearly leaning over his desk now, palms planted on top, eyes boring into Russell’s. Russell doesn’t flinch.

“Crystal,” he deadpans.

“Good.” Mustang sits back in his chair. “If that’s all you have for me, then, you are dismissed.”

“That’s all. Thank you.” Russell turns sharply on his heel and exits the room, shutting the door securely behind him.

* * *

“How did it go?” Fletcher asks the moment Russell rounds the corner, picking at his sleeves in mild irritation. He’s eager to return to the hotel and get out of this uniform.

“Oh, fine,” he says distractedly. “Same as usual. I delivered my report, he threatened to court-martial me, he gave me the typical spiel about—” he puts on his best imitation of Mustang, hands on his hips, “‘—you are a dog of the military and you had best act like one lest I squint at you disapprovingly from over my paperwork—’”

“He threatened to _court-martial_ you? Brother, that’s not funny!” Fletcher says, even as he fights a laugh.

Russell only shrugs, leading the way through Central Command’s double doors and into the street. It’s a brisk, busy day, autumn digging its heels in, people flurrying about to take full advantage of the last few weeks of warmth before the cold season rears its head and shuts them indoors. The air smells like wet dirt; the trees are so bright that they nearly gleam red and gold under the afternoon sun. After the promise of spring, this is Russell’s favorite time of year.

“So what should we do n—?” Fletcher begins, and then breaks off as Russell suddenly stops short, staring at a newsstand several feet away. “Brother?” he asks in confusion.

Russell squints as he tries to make out the person at the newsstand—familiar, but only just. Are his eyes playing tricks on him? He doesn’t want to call out in case he’s wrong, but the longer he looks, the more conviction he gains. Excitement flutters in the pit of his stomach.

“I think that’s Ling,” he says slowly, eyes widening.

Now Fletcher whips his head around, much too obviously for Russell’s taste. “I think you’re right!” he gasps. Then, before Russell can stop him, he calls out, “Ling!”

The boy at the newsstand lifts his head at once. Seeing them, Ling’s face splits into a wide smile. He nudges his companion—Lan Fan, Russell figures, since she’s too tall to be Mei. Though Russell would have much preferred to wait for Ling to notice _him_ , rather than the other way around, he lets Fletcher lead him excitedly over to the newsstand, where Ling startles him by immediately throwing himself at him.

“It’s good to see you!” Ling exclaims after a hearty squeeze, pulling back with his hands still clamped to Russell’s upper arms. His broad grin is hard not to return, though it probably looks infinitely sillier on Russell’s face than it does on Ling’s. It’s suddenly very warm for mid-autumn. “We were hoping we’d run into you guys! How are you?”

“We’re doing good!” Fletcher responds with almost equal enthusiasm as he clasps a smiling Lan Fan’s hands. “It’s good to see you guys, too—but what are you doing in Central? Is everything okay in Resembool?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Things are great,” Ling beams.

“It’s a work in progress,” Lan Fan amends, which Russell trusts slightly more. Ling’s last letter said something similar, too; like Russell, he seems to find it easier to be honest on paper than in person, describing the uphill climb of introducing farming to the stubborn town with much less insistent optimism than he shows now. Still, Russell can’t say that he minds that sunny smile. “As it turns out, my smaller arrays don’t work as well over bigger areas of land—the farm’s expanded since you left, you see—so I thought I’d do some research to try and fix that. Ling insisted on tagging along, and on coming here instead of going to East City. Better resources, he said.”

“ _And_ a significant chance of seeing friends of ours, which I for one think is worth the extra few cens,” Ling tells her, a hand at his hip. Lan Fan only rolls her eyes.

“You mean—” in spite of the armor, Russell can easily imagine Fletcher’s grin as he speaks, “—you came all this way to see _Russell_?”

“Birds, Fletcher!” Russell whirls on him, voice like a mousetrap as indignant color floods his face. “Birds, pecking at your eyeholes. So help me, I will watch you suffer and laugh.”

Fletcher seems unapologetic, while Lan Fan looks bewildered and Ling simply chuckles.

“Oh, come on, Russell, be nice to your brother,” he chides, gently nudging his ribs with an elbow. “That doesn’t sound like the boy who taught me the importance of little sibling appreciation.”

“Why isn’t Mei with you, anyhow?” Russell asks, seizing the opportunity to change the topic. He folds his arms, acutely aware of how defensive it makes it seem.

To his slight surprise, it’s Lan Fan who answers. “She wanted to come, but Grandfather can’t get the hang of alchemy and as the farm’s grown, we’ve become more dependent on it, so someone had to stay behind. Mei volunteered. It’s only practical; she’s the best alchemist of the three of us, anyway—”

“ _Ugh_ , we know, you’re another person who thinks my sister is the best thing that’s happened since sliced bread met toasters,” Ling remarks with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. For whatever reason, it makes Lan Fan’s cheeks pink slightly. “Yeah, Resembool thinks so, too. Can you believe it? _Apparently_ everyone’s decided the identity theft was all mean, nasty Ling’s idea and he just dragged poor Mei along for the ride like it or not.”

“Isn’t that what happened?” Fletcher asks, his voice so sincere that Lan Fan and Russell crack up, while Ling balks in indignation. He huffs.

“So what have you been up to, then?” he says, addressing Russell. “I know your last letter said you had a lot going on—I imagine that guy in Investigations has kept you real busy, huh?”

“… the Investigations Division can be meddlesome, yeah,” Russell agrees, though how Ling knows this is beyond him. He can’t make sense of his grim smile, either. “Well, to be fair, the ones who actually _do_ their jobs do them pretty well, like my one friend there; the ones who don’t just create so much dysfunction that it eclipses the good rest of the department—what, why are you looking at me like that?”

The smile’s gone, replaced with an odd expression that Russell can’t place even as it makes him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Ling’s eyebrows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted. Lan Fan shifts her weight beside him, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

“Um,” Fletcher says.

“That—isn’t exactly what I meant,” Ling tells them, voice hesitant.

“I don’t think they know,” Lan Fan mutters to him.

“What don’t we know?” Russell asks with rising irritation, making her wince. He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh; he simply hates being out of the loop, and he realizes that’s sympathy in Ling’s strange expression, which worries him.

Ling’s eyes snap back to him, wide with surprise and soft with concern. Russell stares back, silently demanding an explanation. Ling swallows.

“A guy in Investigations was murdered a few weeks ago,” he says quietly. “You didn’t know that?”

It takes Russell a moment to process it. He continues to stare at Ling, numb and shocked where before he was assertive; he finds himself blinking very fast, almost expecting the scene before him to change when he reopens his eyes. It doesn’t. Fletcher recovers first to repeat in a small voice, “Murdered?”

“It was all over the papers,” Lan Fan adds, even more tentatively. “He died on the clock, shot in a telephone booth, I think … they promoted him posthumously and everything. You guys really didn’t know?”

Russell’s throat unsticks. “Who was it?” he asks, so imploringly it might be a plea. Why? He only knows one man in Investigations—surely it couldn’t have been—?

Apparently beyond words, Ling presses his lips together and silently hands Russell the newspaper from the top of the stack. Russell takes it with shaking fingers. There, in bold letters, reads, “INVESTIGATION OF HUGHES MURDER ONGOING; NO NEW LEADS.”

Fletcher moans when he reads it over Russell’s shoulder. “No,” he whispers.

“I—I’m sorry,” Ling tells them, looking helplessly from Fletcher, still shaking his head in disbelief, to Russell, who stares at the stark black headline in blank shock. Only when Ling takes the paper back does he realize his hands are still trembling; he shoves them in his pockets as he ducks his eyes. “When you said you had a friend in Investigations, you didn’t mean—?”

“I did.” Russell’s voice sounds strange to his own ears: tight, yet empty. It seems to reach him through a tunnel. “That’s who I was talking about.”

“Oh, shit. Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Ling says again. He turns the paper over as he replaces it on the newsstand, like he’s hiding something indecent. “I thought you knew. I can’t believe you found out like this, fuck—”

“How did you not know?” Lan Fan asks with slow disbelief. Even as she lays a consoling hand on Fletcher’s shaking armor, she keeps her eyes on Russell. “If he was your friend—”

“Lan Fan,” Ling mutters.

It’s too late; now her question repeats itself in Russell’s mind, thumping against the inside of his skull like an angry insect in a jar. It takes root, bringing with it a multitude of conflicting feelings—disbelief, confusion, pain, even anger. How _did_ he not know? Maes Hughes was his friend; surely his affection for the man was apparent however grudging Russell was in demonstrating it. Surely such an event would have reached his ears regardless. How did he _not know_? As he mulls it over, awkward, pained silence replacing the levity in their little group, one conclusion rises above the rest and numbs him further.

“No one wanted me to know,” Russell murmurs. “They kept it from me.”

“Oh, no, Russell, I’m sure that’s not it—” Ling begins.

“Then why wasn’t I told?” Russell responds with sudden sharpness. “Why did no one bother to tell me? What, was I not important enough—?”

He breaks off as this second, equally plausible—and doubly awful—theory settles over him. The indignation leaves as quickly as it came, and Russell folds his arms, hugging himself like he’s warding off a chill.

“I can’t believe it,” Fletcher mumbles. His voice says the opposite, though: it shakes with horror as the reality washes over him. The armor doesn’t let him grieve any more than that. The irony of it—Fletcher, always a crier before, has no tears to shed. Russell would cry for him if he could, but for whatever reason, grief can never make him cry. It numbs him instead, empties him. He bows his head, not wanting Ling to see his stoic expression and accuse him of being unfeeling.

The lightness of before has popped like a bubble. Even as she pats Fletcher, who’s still trembling, Lan Fan bites her lip and averts her eyes. Ling’s hands are buried deep in his pockets; his gaze, too, wanders. With nothing to hear but his whirring thoughts, Russell seems to slip inside himself, staring at the ground without really seeing it, his breaths traitorously even.

Ling’s voice calls him back, still hesitant, almost gentle. “Hey, um.” Russell glances up at him, willing his eyes to focus. “I know you just got some really shitty news, and in a really shitty way, too, but, you know—since we’re all here—I was really hoping we could all catch up, you know? Go somewhere, maybe get some food, or…” He trails off under Russell’s blank look and Lan Fan’s and Fletcher’s dubious stares. “It might help everyone take their minds off things,” he adds in a mumble.

It’s the slight note of helplessness in his voice that grounds Russell at last. Looking at Ling, he finds himself speaking without even thinking about it. “We could get coffee.”

“I don’t really like coffee,” Lan Fan mutters, still seeming awkward.

“Yeah, and I can’t—” Fletcher trails off, gesturing, but then straightens as though hit by sudden inspiration. “You two should go. I’d rather just take a walk or something—”

“I’d like that,” Lan Fan says.

“—and we could meet back here when everyone’s, um, done.” Fletcher nods even as Russell quirks a suspicious eyebrow at him. Then again, it’s Fletcher; what dastardly scheme could he have?

Decided, the group splits into pairs, Lan Fan and Fletcher heading one way, Russell and Ling the other. Russell follows Ling into the first coffee shop they find, an out-of-the-way joint crammed between a bookstore and a doctor’s office; they take a table in the far corner and bump knees as they settle in. As he idly peruses the menu, Russell notices Ling watching him carefully.

“You don’t need to worry about me. We weren’t _that_ close,” he murmurs. “He was just someone that I knew and interacted with fairly often. It’s always a shock when someone that you know dies. It reminds you that nothing’s permanent. Makes you think of your own mortality.”

“I think it’s good to remember we have limited time,” Ling responds. “It helps us remember to make the most of it.” While Russell mulls this over, Ling opens his own menu with a loud hum. “Enough doom and gloom. What are you thinking of getting? I like the sound of this mocha thing.”

Russell already knows his order; he turns the menu over. “Green tea.”

“More like ‘Evergreen’ tea. Get it, ‘cause—” Ling falters when Russell doesn’t laugh and instead stares at him. “‘The Evergreen Alchemist.’ That’s what you picked as your State Alchemist name.”

“I didn’t pick it,” Russell tells him. “The Fuhrer did. I transmuted plants from concrete for the qualifying exam and that’s how I earned the nickname.”

“That’s—neat, I guess.” The flatness in Russell’s voice makes Ling hesitate.

For some reason, Russell keeps talking. “I had a small vegetable garden when I was little. It was in my neighbor’s backyard, but I did all the work on it. I couldn’t keep up with it after I lost my arm and leg; there are chemicals in the automail fingertips that react badly with plants. I found that out when I killed my lettuces.”

“Your gloves don’t help?”

“It’s not quite the same. It’s harder to be as gentle as you sometimes need to be with gloves. And there are sensory aspects that I miss—the stiff feel of the leaves, the dirt under my fingernails…” When he looks at Ling, his wide, blinking eyes make Russell blush. Stupid. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“It’s okay. You can ramble,” Ling assures him. He cracks a smile, which settles Russell more than the words. “We’re friends. Or, well, I like to think we’re friends.”

“We are.”

“Then you can talk to me,” Ling says. A waiter arrives to take their orders. “You don’t have to hold anything back because you’re worried about how I’ll take it. You’ve seen all my ugly parts, haven’t you?”

Russell huffs out a laugh. “I promise, even you in all your identity-stealing glory look like a saint next to some of the stuff I’ve done.”

“That’s a little melodramatic,” Ling answers. The toe of his shoe brushes Russell’s shin, too gentle to be a kick, but too purposeful to be an accident. “You’re a good person, Russell. What’s that thing you told me in that cellar? It’s not your mistakes that make you who you are, it’s how you react to them?”

_You remember?_ Russell almost says. He can’t help fluttering warmth in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Ling taking special care to remember his words. “That sounds right,” he says instead. “You should know that I’m not very good at taking my own advice, though.”

“Then take mine: everyone makes mistakes, Russell. You can’t hold out for absolute perfection. You’re going to mess up, and that’s okay. There’s no point in dwelling on it except to pay your dues; then you move on.”

Russell goes solemnly silent. It’s sound advice, but Russell’s dues are harder to pay than most, his mistake more egregious and the consequences direr. He shifts in his seat and feels the pocket watch against his thigh. Always, it reminds him.

The waiter brings their drinks. Russell blows on his tea while Ling immediately takes a sip of his mocha, burning his tongue and painting his upper lip with whipped cream. Russell can’t stifle a laugh at the sight of him.

“Nice. Really nice,” he grumbles. He chooses to lick the cream off his mouth in spite of the napkin Russell offers him; for some reason, Russell has to avert his eyes from this sight, occupying himself instead with his tea. Ling speaks again just before he brings the cup to his lips. “If it wasn’t Hughes’ murder that was keeping you, why have you been so busy?” he asks, a bit more seriously. “Your letter made it sound like you had more on your plate than usual. Then you said you’d call in Rush Valley and you didn’t. What’s been going on?”

With a careful glance around, wanting relative privacy—besides the handful of staff, there’s only a student taking notes from a thick textbook and a couple canoodling in the opposite corner—Russell leans forward and relays in a low murmur the details he had to omit from his letter. The truth behind the Philosopher’s Stone, the secret laboratory where Lab 5 once stood, the artificial humans. Through it all, Ling’s eyes grow wider and wider, though he keeps his mouth shut until the end as per Russell’s request. It’s easier to recount than Russell anticipated; in fact, it would even be cleansing, freeing, if hearing it didn’t slowly put a chilling thought in his mind. While Ling absorbs it all, Russell voices this thought, hoping it’ll lose substance when spoken aloud.

“The last conversation I had with Hughes was to tell him what happened in Laboratory Five,” he says quietly. “He promised to investigate it fully. If he died on duty, like Lan Fan said…”

Ling catches up before Russell can bring himself to finish his sentence. He leans forward to tightly grasp Russell’s wrist, which startles him, though he doesn’t pull away. “Don’t you even _think_ of blaming yourself for what happened,” he says, sounding adamant. “Of course he was looking into what you told him; that was his _job_ , Russell. You did what you were supposed to and so did he. Whatever happened from there isn’t your fault.”

“If I hadn’t gone to Lab Five in the first place—”

“Then no one would know about the homunculi period. Then they’d have free reign to keep doing whatever they were doing and possibly even worse shit. Now that you’ve alerted everyone about them, they have to be on their guards so they won’t get caught,” Ling tells him. “Knowing is half the battle, Russell, ever heard that? You’ve taken away a huge advantage of theirs. And now with Hughes’ death—I mean, I’m not saying I’m happy it happened—”

“He had a wife and daughter,” Russell finds himself murmuring.

Ling hesitates at this, a little stricken. “It’s horrible, yeah. But look at it like this. Whatever the homunculi are doing, whatever they’re hiding, it’s worth killing for. And it wasn’t a neat murder, either. They could’ve played it smart and sneaky like they’ve been doing and made it look like an accident, or a suicide, but instead they just shot him the first chance they got, it looks like. That means they didn’t have the time to do anything else. They were desperate. So they got sloppy.”

“Desperate people do desperate things,” Russell agrees in undertone. Then, raising his voice: “If they killed Hughes out of desperation, that means that Hughes was on the verge of discovering something significant. They killed him to preserve their secret.”

“Exactly,” Ling says. “And if Hughes was steps away from figuring it out, he had to have left notes or something. Whoever succeeds him can just follow his lead. They’re cornered now.”

Russell sighs into his tea before he takes a long sip. “Unfortunately, that sort of practical, logical thinking isn’t exactly our _esteemed_ military’s modus operandi.”

“Why aren’t you part of the investigation, then? You could set everyone on the right track.”

“Of course I could. Which is probably why my supervisor outright banned me from having anything to do with it,” Russell answers, his mouth twisting. “No, I’ve been researching alternatives to the Philosopher’s Stone. Rush Valley was just a detour.”

He elaborates on his misadventures there, which prompts further discussion on the various ways townspeople mistreat strangers. Russell wastes no time reminding Ling that anything he gets in Resembool is wholly deserved, though without any real malice; shameless as ever, Ling responds with Russell’s own dubiously legal activities, and they go back and forth teasing each other until their drinks get cold. By the time Russell pays and they step outside, dusk has fallen, street lamps casting a soft golden glow over the sidewalks and buildings.

“Do you remember the way back?” Ling asks him. Before Russell can respond with, _Of course_ , Ling says lightly, “Because I know _a_ way back. It’s just a little longer, if that’s all right with you.”

“Th—that’s all right with me, sure,” Russell responds, trying and failing to mimic his casual tone.

He falls in step beside Ling as they meander through the emptying streets, darkness settling gently around them.

For several moments, they’re quiet. It isn’t awkward silence necessarily, but there’s something unsettlingly intimate around it. Every slight brush of their shoulders makes sparks dance under Russell’s skin, his cheeks a stubborn red and his neck hot under his collar; he only hopes the dim light disguises it.

“Still thinking about Hughes?” Ling asks eventually.

Russell can’t help but grimace. He hadn’t been, until Ling mentioned it.

“Oh. Sorry,” he says, looking sheepish.

“No, it’s all right. There’s a difference between not dwelling on it and ignoring it outright. That’s not something I can do, either,” Russell responds.

“It must be hard to believe he’s gone,” Ling murmurs.

Now it’s shame that makes Russell cringe. That wasn’t what his mind jumped to, either. “I’m still wondering why Colonel Mustang ordered it be secret from me, to be honest.”

“You don’t know that he _ordered_ it,” Ling tells him.

“I do, though,” Russell insists, “or else he’d have told me.”

“That’s a bit of a leap,” Ling says. “It could be he just forgot. Between the funeral and the murder investigation, not to mention everything else they’ve been swamped with since Lab Five, and you being somewhere else, it probably just didn’t occur to him.”

It pangs. “So I really _wasn’t_ important enough,” Russell murmurs.

“I mean, if you want to put it like that … kind of, yeah.” Ling sighs when Russell looks down. “Look,” he says, coming to a sudden halt, “I know it must suck. But you’re taking it too personally, Russell. You have to understand, just because you’re not someone’s priority doesn’t mean you don’t matter at all. You can be important without being the _most_ important.”

“I suppose.” Russell glances ahead at what looks like the newsstand they were meant to meet at. There’s no sign of Lan Fan or Fletcher. “I’m still going to talk to Mustang about it, though,” he adds, firm on this point.

“Just don’t do anything that’ll get you in trouble.”

Russell lays a hand over his chest in exaggerated incredulity. “I’m sorry, you’re telling _me_ to stay out of trouble? You, of all people?”

“I mean it!” Ling snaps back, startling Russell with his seriousness. “What you do is risky enough without you finding extra ways to put yourself in danger!” He huffs out a second, harsher sigh, while Russell stares at him, nonplussed. “As your friend, it’s not easy to hear that you nearly got killed a couple of weeks ago, Russell. Especially when you say it so casually I’ve got to assume stuff like that is the norm. I get what you do is dangerous. I’m not trying to stop you. I just.” He glances down, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the sidewalk. “I worry.”

“Don’t. I never asked you to.”

“Well, too bad,” Ling tells him, heat in his voice as he glares back up at him. “That’s what happens when people get close to you. They care, and they worry. It’s beyond your control at that point, like it or not, so there’s no point in pushing people away because of it.”

For a split second, it isn’t Ling’s face that Russell sees, nor Fletcher’s, though he often says the same thing. No, it’s his mother’s, pinched with frustration as she snaps, _“Damn it, Nash, stop pushing me away!”_ She said it repeatedly while they were together, in various ways—sometimes an order, sometimes a plea—but it fell on deaf ears time and time again until Nash finally left. By then, she’d long since given up. She was hardly even sorry to see the back of him.

Russell can’t, won’t be like that. He wraps his arms around himself and sighs, his eyes on the ground. The display of vulnerability makes Ling falter.

“That was harsh. I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, you were right,” Russell tells him. “It’s just—a reflex of mine, a habit, to brush off people’s concern. To want to appear in control all the time. And, all right, maybe I’m just not very good at having friends.” This last bit’s a mumble; Russell hugs himself tighter, color rising in his cheeks.

Now Ling smiles, soft and sincere. His dark eyes seem to shine. “I’ll teach you, then.”

Russell is spared having to think of an intelligent response to this by Ling crossing over to the newsstand and picking up a slip of paper on top that Russell didn’t notice. Ling reads the note aloud. “‘Dear Russell and Ling, I hope you’re having fun, Lan Fan was tired so I helped her get a room and I will be waiting for my brother in ours when you guys are done. Don’t stay out too late.’ I’m guessing that’s Fletcher. He didn’t sign his name, though, there’s just this little picture of what looks like a spear or something.”

“An arrow,” Russell corrects him without having to look. “He likes to sign things like that; he read it in a book or something when we were younger.” He comes closer to reread the missive for himself, though between the dim light and the clumsy writing—the armor does little for Fletcher’s fine-motor skills—it’s no mean feat to make out. It takes Russell nearly a minute of squinting to decipher that the hotel where Fletcher instilled Lan Fan is different from theirs, which means that it’s time to part ways. Russell looks up, feeling a dull pang. Ling smiles.

“Guess this is goodnight,” he tells him.

“Yeah,” Russell murmurs. Realizing how close they’re standing, he takes a step back. “It was nice to see you again,” he tells them, incredibly aware of how stilted it sounds. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Ling says, lifting his hand in a wave.

Before he turns to go, the question falls unbidden from Russell’s lips. “Will you be in Central for much longer?”

“A few more days, yeah.”

“We should—” Russell clears his throat. “We should do this again, before you go,” he says, as casually as he can muster.

Ling beams. “We should. That sounds nice.”

“And thank you,” Russell adds, just as Ling’s about to walk off. His cheeks are warm again. “For what you said.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s what friends are for. Consider it friendship lesson number one.” Ling tilts his head, his expression soft. “Sleep well, Russell.”

“You, too.”

They finally separate, Ling disappearing into the quickly-falling night as Russell turns and starts off in the opposite direction. Despite the heaviness of the day, there’s something of a spring in his step.

* * *

When Russell returns to the hotel room, Fletcher’s sitting at the kitchen table listening to the radio, which he shuts off when he hears Russell come in. “Hi, Brother. You were out late.”

“Don’t you start,” Russell warns him, hanging up his coat.

“I wasn’t starting anything.”

“It’s perfectly normal for time to get away with you when you’re with a friend. It doesn’t mean that I _like_ him or anything ridiculous like that.”

“I said, I wasn’t starting anything,” Fletcher repeats, a bit more emphatically. Russell, peeling off his gloves, pauses in slight surprise.

“Oh. Well—all right, then.”

He undresses in the bathroom with his back to the mirror, pulls on a t-shirt and soft cotton pants to sleep in, and returns to the kitchen for a glass of water. Fletcher steadfastly avoids his gaze; Russell watches him sit and fidget with growing unease of his own.

“What is it?” he finally asks, setting the glass down.

“They made an arrest, Brother,” Fletcher murmurs. “For Lieutenant Colonel Hughes’ murder. They just said it on the radio.”

His tone doesn’t seem to match these words. Even if Hughes’ death has him feeling somber, news of his killer being brought to justice should provide at least a little relief; if anything, it seems to make him feel worse. Russell stares at Fletcher while Fletcher continues to stare at his hands.

“It isn’t someone we know, is it?” Russell says.

Fletcher exhales shakily, bowing his head. “It’s Maria Ross, Brother.”

Without her rank in front, Russell doesn’t recognize the name at first. Then he realizes—Second Lieutenant Ross, the officer who helped them decode Marcoh’s research notes, who offered words of support when the grim reality of those notes made itself known, who fronted the team that rescued Russell and Fletcher from Laboratory 5. Russell doesn’t know her well, but she’s a good woman, honest, gracious. This is who killed Hughes? Who shot him in cold blood while his back was turned?

Russell doesn’t believe it. If Maria Ross killed someone, she would have at least had the decency to look them in the eye as she pulled the trigger.

“It couldn’t have been her,” he says.

“I know,” Fletcher whispers.

“The homunculi or whoever controls them were behind Hughes’ death,” Russell continues. “That’s obvious. That’s _painfully_ obvious. Ross had as much to do with his murder as you or I did. Why would they—?”

His sentence goes unfinished as his mind fills in the blanks. Ross is a scapegoat. At the very least, they’re using her to cover their own incompetence—weeks without a lead, civilians frightened, the military wants something to prove that they’re still in control. At the worst … could they be protecting the real killers by pinning the blame on Ross?

“This is ridiculous. This is a miscarriage of justice. They can’t do this,” Russell says, his voice beginning to shake.

Fletcher finally looks up at him. He doesn’t need a proper face: pity seems to emanate from him. “Russell,” he says softly. “Of course they can.”

In this world where the government’s control is prioritized over the lives and well-beings of its citizens, Russell’s baby brother is more accepting of deceit and injustice than Russell himself. His knees turn to water and he sinks to the ground, back against the wall, as silence rings in the air between them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy this chapter, please consider reblogging it on [tumblr](http://bpdrussell.tumblr.com/post/159396784510/hands-held-higher-ch-8)! ♥

How long Russell sits there, he doesn’t know. Time loses meaning as he stares at the floor without really seeing it, drowning as he is in his thoughts. Fletcher’s soft voice eventually rouses him.

“Should I turn the radio back on, Brother?” he murmurs. “See what else they’re saying?”

“No.” It feels like there’s gravel in Russell’s throat. “We can’t trust anything that they say.”

“But we still might wanna know,” Fletcher tells him.

Russell doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to hear the excuses—the _lies_ —the military must be feeding the populace to justify their indictment of an innocent woman. If she’s convicted, Ross faces a life sentence, if the military is feeling merciful. If not … good God, will they kill her for this? Stick her in front of a firing squad, clean hands and all?

Somehow, Russell connects it to Laboratory 5. None of this would be happening if he hadn’t gone to Laboratory 5. Exposing the homunculi wasn’t worth what’s soon to be two deaths on Russell’s head.

“I have to do something,” he finds himself saying. He looks up at Fletcher, his eyes heavy. “I have to do something, Fletcher. I have to stop this, somehow.”

“What’ll you do?” Fletcher asks, sympathy clinging to the words. That sympathy, when Russell wants it the least, puts a bite in his response.

“Something! I can’t very well let her take the fall for this!”

“But, Brother—if Lieutenant Ross is being framed by the military, they’ll get her no matter what you try to do,” Fletcher says pleadingly.

Russell’s head drops back against the wall behind him. Fletcher’s right, of course. Even if the military would listen to reason, Russell has been away from Central for weeks. He only learned of the murder this afternoon, for crying out loud. The most that he could do is testify to her good character, which won’t mean anything to them. He has nothing of value to offer in Ross’ defense.

Before despair overcomes him, though, a thought snags.

“No matter what I try to do … from the _inside_ ,” he says, slow enough to taste it.

“What does tha—oh, no, Russell,” Fletcher gasps, balking as he realizes. “Russell, no! You can’t put yourself at risk like that! Are you crazy?!”

“If that’s what you call wanting to do the right thing, then sure,” Russell responds. He stands when Fletcher does and talks over him, indignation seeping into his voice. “You’re the one who wishes that I wasn’t part of the military because they’re so _terrible_. Yet you complain when I want to actively go against them?”

“Of course! Brother, I didn’t mean it like that! I didn’t mean do something dangerous that’ll get you in trouble!” Fletcher cries out. “I know you’re only with them so you can find out a way to get our bodies back. I know! I’m sorry if I made it sound any different! But until you can resign, it doesn’t matter if either of us likes it, you have to listen to them! In fact, you have to listen to them even _more_ since they’re terrible ‘cause that means they don’t just have the power to hurt you, if you step out of line, they won’t hesitate to use it!” Then, as Russell stares, taken aback by the passion in his outburst, Fletcher grows quiet again. “Please, Brother,” he whispers, “I know you wanna help Lieutenant Ross. I do, too. But the chances that you’ll be able to do anything for her are so, so slim compared to the chances that you’ll get hurt bad if you try, and I can’t stand to see anything happen to you. I love you too much.”

“Calm down, Fletch. It was just an idea,” Russell says, gently, reaching over to rub a soothing hand up the length of Fletcher’s arm. He sighs. “You’re right. If they’re looking for scapegoats, it would be foolish of me to act rash. Helping Ross can’t be more important than keeping my head down when I have so many eyes on me as it is.”

Fletcher’s relief is palpable.

“I should get some sleep. It’s been a long day,” he adds. He uses his automail to tug his left arm until the shoulder pops. “Tomorrow we’ll need to continue work, and we might be able to squeeze in some more time with Ling and Lan Fan before they leave; he tells me they’ll be in Central for a few more days.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good plan, Brother,” Fletcher agrees, nodding. If he can’t smile with his face, at least he can with his voice. “Goodnight. I love you.”

“Love you, too.” Smiling, Russell pats his hand, then retreats into the bedroom. “Goodnight.”

* * *

The next night, news of Ross’ conviction still ringing in his ears, Russell dresses in all black. He leaves his tan overcoat despite the autumn chill to better disguise himself in the dark; hopefully his white gloves won’t be too noticeable, since he’ll need them to hide the gleam of his automail hand. As quiet as he can, he unlatches the window, listens for movement in the kitchen, and lifts it inch by inch.

Unfortunately, Fletcher’s ears are sharper than he gives them credit for.

“ _You were gonna do it anyway?!_ ” he shouts, so that Russell startles and knocks his temple against the window frame. “After all that, you were _still_ just gonna do it anyway?! What the _hell_ , Russell?! I can’t _believe_ you!”

“Of course I’m doing it anyway!” Russell snaps back, trying in vain to keep his face from flushing in shame. He never feels good about lying to his brother, hence why he does it as little as possible. “It’s my fault that Ross was arrested, Fletcher! I’m not going to let her rot in jail or die because of me!”

“What are you gonna do, bust her out?!” When Russell doesn’t answer, cheeks darkening as he averts his eyes, Fletcher makes an exasperated noise. “That’s it. You’re crazy. You’re completely, totally nuts.”

“You can’t stop me, Fletcher,” Russell says, quiet conviction like steel in his voice.

“I know that,” his brother answers. “That’s why I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Russell says at once. “It’s too dangerous. I can’t risk anything happening to you.”

“You’re not giving _me_ a choice, so I’m not giving _you_ a choice,” Fletcher retorts. “And you can’t stop _me_ , either.”

Russell huffs. Every moment that he wastes arguing is a moment that Ross spends behind bars, possibly awaiting her execution. And, as much as he wants to keep Fletcher out of harm’s way, he can’t deny that he could use the help.

“You stay behind me whenever possible and don’t try anything reckless. And do what I tell you,” Russell says.

“Always, Brother.” Russell doesn’t miss the wry note to his voice.

* * *

At the prison, they come upon pandemonium.

“What’s going on?” Fletcher gasps, as Russell tugs him behind a wall and out of sight.

“Someone’s escaped,” he answers.

It’s never happened during Russell’s tenure as a State Alchemist, but this can’t be anything else. Armored trucks surround the perimeter and line the adjacent street; lights flash and alarms blare, knifing through the quiet of the night. All around, soldiers swarm, weapons at the ready. There’s no chance of them sneaking into the jail—a ghost couldn’t slip past that barricade. Fletcher titters anxiously as Russell surveys the scene with his tongue between his teeth.

“Brother, this is way too risky. Let’s just leave,” Fletcher whispers.

“Are you kidding?” Russell glances up, cracking a grin. “This is perfect. Either Lieutenant Ross escaped herself, thus sparing us having to do the dirty work, or someone else did, providing the perfect cover for us to smuggle her out.”

“We can’t do _anything_ if we can’t get in,” Fletcher insists.

“But we can,” Russell tells him. When Fletcher tilts his head, perplexed, Russell rummages in his pocket, pulls out the silver pocket watch, and lets it gleam under the light of a nearby streetlamp. Fletcher makes a small, choked noise as he understands.

“If you get caught—” he begins, and then breaks off, apparently unable to voice it.

“You don’t have to do this with me,” Russell says. He might be twelve again, preparing to take the test that will earn him the watch he now holds, or fiddling with matches while Fletcher cradles a can of gasoline. “I can do it myself.”

“But you don’t have to. That’s why you have me,” Fletcher responds, just as he did then.

Russell’s smirk becomes a smaller, softer smile. He tucks his watch back into his pocket and cups Fletcher’s armored elbow in his automail hand. “And I appreciate it. Never doubt that I appreciate it, okay, Fletch?”

Fletcher meets his gaze, but he responds with only silence. It’s impossible to gauge that silence without a proper face to read—if he had his body, would he be smiling gently, staring solemnly, glowering? It’s nearly maddening, sometimes, being unable to parse the expression of the one person Russell used to read best, though he reminds himself that Fletcher’s current condition is much worse for him than for Russell. Hence why Russell will reverse it, restore him, as soon as possible, whatever it takes.

Finally, Fletcher gives a slow nod. Russell pats his arm, satisfied.

“Follow me, then. And remember—”

“Let you do the talking,” Fletcher finishes.

Russell makes the _okay_ sign with his thumb and forefinger before he straightens his collar, grasps his watch in his fist, and strides out from behind the corner and toward the wall of vehicles—spine straight, shoulders back, his pace efficient but not panicked. There’s a gap between two trucks; as Russell approaches it, a nearby soldier hurries over and blocks their path, his weapon held across his chest.

“Only authorized personnel beyond this point, sir,” the soldier says. The stars on his shoulders label him a captain. Perfect. “Civilians housed within fifty miles of the area are on lockdown until furthe—”

“I’m not a civilian and I believe that this is all the authorization I need,” Russell interrupts smoothly, and holds out the watch for the captain to inspect. The captain squints at it for several seconds before he looks back up at Russell, distinctly ruffled.

“Unfortunately, major,” the captain says in clipped tones, “that isn’t the case. You need special clearan—”

“Granted to me by the colonel, who requested my help in bringing the fugitive to justice, believing my particular skills may be of assistance,” Russell responds.

“Colonel Douglas ordered this?” the captain asks.

Russell meant Colonel Mustang, but if this Douglas is in charge, that works, too. “Precisely. Now if you’ll stand aside, captain.”

The soldier doesn’t move. He eyes Russell’s button-up, suspenders, and slacks in suspicion. “If you’re on duty, why aren’t you in uniform?”

Russell makes a noise of affronted exasperation. “I’m sorry, captain, are you going to let a fugitive roam the streets wreaking God knows what kind of havoc because you’d rather ask why I haven’t _changed my clothes_?” He leans in close to loom over the man—he’s several inches taller, to his satisfaction—and the captain automatically cringes back, eyes widening in his face.

A scowl replaces the shock after a moment, but it’s the resigned sort. Recognizing Russell’s authority despite his youth, not daring to question a colonel especially in circumstances as dire as this, the captain has no choice but to step aside, his temples twitching. Russell’s lip curls.

“I appreciate your cooperation,” he says. Yet, before he can pass him, the soldier reaches out and clasps his upper arm. Russell stares at him in question.

“In case you weren’t aware of Colonel Douglas’ orders,” the captain tells him, voice cool, “there’s no need to take Ross alive. If she resists, we shoot to kill.”

A shiver trickles down Russell’s spine. He struggles not to tighten his shoulders against the feeling.

“Naturally,” he responds instead. “Now let me go.”

With one last, irritable glance, the soldier releases Russell’s arm and allows him and Fletcher past the barricade. Russell stows his watch, unable to keep the small, crooked smile from his lips as the captain turns his back.

“Like I said. Easy.”

“Was that the hardest part, Brother?” Fletcher asks, a touch of delicate sarcasm in his voice.

“Well, no, but we’re off to an excellent start.”

Up ahead, the prison looms, its gates flung wide open to admit the flood of yet more soldiers—backup for the guards in case more inmates take Ross’ lead, Russell figures. He follows the tide without hesitation, Fletcher right on his heels even as a small, confused noise comes from his armor.

“She can’t still be inside! They would’ve caught her by now, wouldn’t they?” he asks, having to shout to make his soft voice heard over the wailing alarms as they enter the building itself.

“We need to find the cell Ross escaped from,” Russell responds. “Then we follow whatever trail she left as she fled, which will hopefully lead us to Ross herself.”

“How do we know which cell was hers? There’s a ton of them and all these halls look exactly the same!”

“I’m willing to bet that the cells on each individual hall share the same electrical grid. If Ross tampered with the power to make her getaway—caused a blackout or something—not just her cell but the entire hall will be affected. And, of course, the cells are arranged in such a way that all of Ross’ neighbors would’ve easily seen her escape,” Russell explains, still tailing the soldiers. “That entire wing is now vulnerable, so these guys are being sent there to secure it. They’ll lead us right to her.”

“That’s how we find her _cell_ ,” Fletcher says. “How do we find _her_?”

“One thing at a time, Fletcher. Just keep putting your feet in front of you.”

Several corridors and a staircase later, they come upon a hall still brightly lit, despite Russell’s conjecture, but already crawling with armed guards. The soldiers they’ve traveled with quickly join the group, drawing their weapons to beat them against the bars of the cells, scaring the prisoners back like you would animals in cages.

One cell, as predicted, is empty, its door hanging open.

“Excuse me! State Alchemist coming through!” Russell hollers. He maneuvers through the web of soldiers until he stands in front of Ross’ cell. His breath catches when he sees it—the bars around the locking mechanism have been deeply slashed, one severed entirely, and the padlock itself lays on the floor in a mess of tiny pieces.

“Lieutenant Ross couldn’t have done that,” Fletcher murmurs in shock.

“No,” Russell agrees, touching the score marks with his feeling fingertips. A very sharp blade must have made them. Steeling himself, he whips around and addresses the soldiers at large, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Who did this?”

“Maria Ross’ accomplice, major,” a woman answers. When Russell lifts his eyebrows, she continues, “She escaped with the help of a violent accomplice—a man in a thick suit of armor and skull mask.”

“That was no man,” a younger voice contradicts her, his eyebrows furrowing with fear. “Someone shot that mask right off and the only thing behind it was empty air. I swear it. There’s no man inside that armor.”

“No man ins—” Russell breaks off, his eyes widening. “Oh, my God,” he breathes.

“Barry the Chopper,” Fletcher whispers. “From Lab Five!”

He isn’t wrong, but that will never be how Russell remembers him. He thinks of Barry the Chopper—even now, nearly a year later—and he thinks of the frigid inside of a meat locker, half-butchered pig carcasses hanging on chains from the low ceiling, and Elisa Lemac shrieking through the gag in her mouth as Barry teases Russell with his cleaver. A small scar on his left shoulder, long since healed, stings at the memory. His lungs feel suddenly tight, and his fingers are clammy and cold.

A palm between his shoulders startles him out of his reverie—almost making him shout, in truth, in the split second before Russell remembers Fletcher, the prison, their plan. He hurriedly regains his composure and covers the faux pas by barking out another demand: “Which way did they go?”

The female soldier points, and Russell stalks off in that direction, shaking the rest of the chill from his hands.

“Brother—” Fletcher begins, concerned.

“I’m fine. Taken off guard is all.” His clipped voice leaves no room for argument, and Fletcher falls silent.

The woman’s directive leads them to a fire escape, also bearing slash marks of the sort a massive cleaver would leave. This time ignoring the guards’ baffled looks, Russell barrels through the door and vaults over the railing; the impact of his feet to the ground makes him topple to all fours for just a moment, but by the time Fletcher joins him, he’s straightening again and whipping his head from left to right, trying to decide which way Ross and Barry went. His eyes lock on a fence several yards in front of him, tall and topped with barbed wire—and gaping open where it looks like a blade hacked through several of its chain links, creating a person-sized hole. Russell almost smirks. Lucky for them, Barry the Chopper is messier than ever.

“This way, Fletch,” he says quickly, and takes off sprinting in that direction, Fletcher hurrying along behind him.

“Why aren’t there any soldiers coming this way?” Fletcher shouts as they follow an alley leading off the jail. The warehouse district isn’t far from here—in the darkness, falling rapidly the farther they get from the brightness of the prison complex, it would make an excellent hiding place. Russell runs with such speed and intensity that talking is difficult, but he huffs out a guess anyway without pausing for breath.

“Not eager to get sliced up, maybe?”

“Or we’re going the wrong way!” Fletcher says worriedly.

But, as they burst from the alley and into an intersection, his fear is immediately allayed. They both stop dead—Russell clutching a stitch in his side—at the sight of Barry the Chopper, tall as Fletcher in his armor and doubly menacing with his dual cleavers and skull-shaped helmet, sharp teeth lining the open mouth, one eye socket caved in from the hole in his temple. Behind him, wearing prison garb and an expression of shock, is Second Lieutenant Maria Ross.

“Russell! Fletcher!” she gasps out. “What are you two doing here?!”

Russell forces himself to straighten, struggling to regain his breath. “We’re here to res—”

A whistle near his ear causes him to break off midsentence, and Russell has the foresight to drop to the ground mere milliseconds before the sword would have taken his head off. He rolls over from all fours to find the point of that sword trained between his eyes, its handled clasped tightly in the left hand of none other than Edris Hohenheim.

“What are _you_ doing here?!” Russell demands.

“Should be asking _you_ that, alchemist,” Ed spits, his gold eyes narrowed to slits. “I warned you not to come here, didn’t I?”

“ _We don’t have time for this!_ ” Barry bellows.

He lunges, cleavers swinging, and manages to score Fletcher’s breastplate before he can jump back. Indignation at the sight of this momentarily replaces Russell’s lingering fear of Barry; before Ed refocuses, Russell aims a kick at his side that knocks him to the ground, then leaps to his feet and prepares to run at Barry, hands poised to transmute.

The elbow that connects with Russell’s side doesn’t belong to Ed, to his shock—he looks up after he hits the concrete and sees Fletcher standing over him, hands held in a shaking but fierce fighting stance. “You stay back,” he warns Barry, his voice cracking. Barry ignores him and hurriedly addresses Ross.

“You—take that back alley there and run straight for the warehouse district!” he orders her, while she stares at him with wide, horrified eyes. “I’ll take care of things here!”

“What are you going to do?!” she demands, and then recoils at the swing of his arm, his blade inches from slashing her face. Her hand scrambles helplessly at her hip, seeking a weapon that isn’t there.

“If the MPs show up, they’ll shoot you! ‘Whatever I have to do,’ you said! So _run_!”

“Wait!” Fletcher cries out.

Ross looks in anguish from him to Barry, then to the alley Barry indicated—then, with a panicked noise, she ducks her head and takes off running in that direction, her sandals pounding the concrete as she disappears into the darkness.

“Lieutenant!” Russell shouts after her, to no avail—by now, she’s far out of earshot. Fletcher helps him to his feet, continuing to block him with his armor as Ed stalks forward. To Russell’s surprise, Barry grabs Ed’s shoulder.

“C’mon, foreigner, time for that later! We gotta go!” he insists. He turns on his heel and takes off the way they came. Ed watches him for a moment, then levels a glare at Russell.

“We aren’t done,” he tells him ominously, and then sheaths his weapon to follow Barry as he flees, his long braid whipping behind him.

It all happens so quickly that Russell almost feels whiplashed, still breathing hard as Fletcher supports him with a hand on his back. “Ross,” he gasps the moment he can speak, and shakes off Fletcher’s hand to barrel down the alley after her.

He hasn’t taken twenty steps when the explosion knocks him off his feet.

Fletcher probably screams—Russell himself makes some noise of shock—but the blast is so enormous that it completely drowns them out. It lights up the night like some ghastly firework; for several seconds, the alleyways all glow a brilliant orange, and Russell can _feel_ the emanating heat even from here. Then it wanes as quickly as it flared up, leaving the night darker and colder than before.

That dark, cold feeling sinks into Russell’s chest, too, as he realizes with sickening dread what must have happened—what he knows must have created an explosion like that.

“Are you all right, Brother?!” Fletcher gasps, running up.

Russell doesn’t let him get close enough to touch him—he staggers to his feet, teetering slightly, and then resumes running so fast and hard he begins to taste blood on his breath.

“Brother!” Fletcher hollers behind him.

Russell ignores him; he keeps going, his lungs screaming, his thoughts a panicked, desperate rush as he hopes beyond all things that he’s wrong—

He stumbles upon the scene, and the stench of burning meat nearly makes him vomit on the spot.

He bends double, hands on his knees, winded. Vertigo, both from shock and the hard run, blurs his vision; he shuts his eyes against it for a moment or two as he pants. With every breath comes that smell—that _taste_ —burned, charred flesh, hot in his throat and thick in his lungs. It takes tremendous effort not to gag.

It takes infinitely _more_ to open his eyes and see what lays before him.

The body, still smoking, the skin scorched black, the features melted into indistinguishableness—it’s a grisly picture that has Russell reeling long after he catches his breath. Summoning the very last vestiges of strength that he possesses, he forces himself to straighten and inspect further, his eyes following the bent and blackened arm until he sees the dull gleam of metal at the wrist. Even burnt, Russell can read the engraving on the identification bracelet issued by the prison: MARIA ROSS.

Before he crumbles with despair, the weight of his failure crashing around his ears, a voice rings out in front of him, cold and sharp. “What are you doing here, Evergreen?”

Russell finds his voice. “Colonel,” he says, as Roy Mustang steps out from behind the corner. His features are grave, his black eyes mere slits in his face. The fingers of his left hand are curled in his right glove, pulling it taut around his fingers.

The connection happens quickly, and fury—like Mustang’s fireball—burns through Russell’s body, chasing out the despair, the numbness. He draws himself up to his full height, meeting Mustang’s eyes.

“What in God’s name did you do?” Russell demands, in his quietest, most dangerous voice.

A muscle twitches in Mustang’s jaw. Besides that, his expression remains cool. “Unlike some of us,” he responds, deadpan, “I follow my orders.”

“ _You killed her!_ ” The sound bursts from Russell’s mouth, and with it, his composure fractures—he rushes forward and grabs Mustang by the lapels, the better to snarl down at him, “You killed her! You murdered her, you fucking—how could you—?!”

Their faces centimeters apart, Russell sees Mustang’s eyes flash clear as anything. Before Russell can react, Mustang seizes his wrists—his fingers dig in with bruising force, so that Russell’s hands are forced to unclench and release him. Still, he doesn’t let go. He squeezes until Russell’s left wrist throbs from lack of blood flow and the metal plating in the right squeaks in protest, and when Russell’s knees buckle from the pain, eliminating his height advantage, Mustang speaks in a voice that could splinter steel.

“Why don’t you tell me more about these orders from Colonel Douglas you’ve allegedly received, according to several guards and soldiers?” he says. “Or, better yet—explain to me how _one fourteen-year-old boy_ is so _arrogant_ as to think he’s cleverer than the most powerful unitary state in the world? Or explain what it is you actually intended to do tonight? Or why you’re _incapable_ of following _a single order I give you?_ ”

“Let go of me,” Russell snaps, struggling ineffectually. When Mustang only grips him tighter, he can’t help but gasp out, “You’re hurting me, colonel!”

Mustang releases Russell so roughly and suddenly, he loses his balance and falls to the ground. Mustang looms over him with eyes like daggers.

“I warned you, Tringham. I warned you that the other day would be the last time you defied me and got away with it,” he tells Russell, whose anger, like the flip of a switch, becomes panic. _Go_ , he thinks. _Run!_ He can’t even stand before Mustang storms over, hauls him to his feet, and spins him to shove him harshly against the wall of the alley, face-first, the rough brick scraping his cheek. Russell fights his hold, snarling, to little avail. He hears the clink of metal behind him.

“Major Russell Tringham,” he thunders, each word dropping into Russell’s stomach like a lead weight as Mustang closes one cuff, then the other around his wrists, “you are under arrest. You have the right to do yourself a favor and keep your goddamn mouth _shut_ for once.”

* * *

“Major Russell Tringham, the Evergreen Alchemist,” Colonel Henry Douglas intones. He folds his large hands in front of him, while Russell presses his cheek into his fist and bounces his automail leg under the table. “Your commanding officer claims he arrested you for treason. He encouraged me before I came to speak with you to punish you to the highest extent of the law, regardless of your age. You probably know that the chief penalty for treason, major, is execution.”

What should be a harrowing statement barely affects him, his brain in a fog and his eyes blurred as he stares at the corner of the interrogation table. Under the harsh light, Russell can see the paint chipping at the edge. Someone should really fix that, he thinks idly.

“Fortunately for you, Evergreen, I am a very reasonable man,” Douglas continues. “Even merciful, if I think someone deserving of my mercy.”

This is the officer who ordered Lieutenant Ross killed on sight. He, like the rest of the Amestrian military, wouldn’t know “merciful” if it performed fellatio on his father in front of him.

“I know that Colonel Mustang was in a highly emotional state when he arrested you last night. He and the brigadier general were close friends and he had just killed Hughes’ murderer before he confronted you. Disappointed by how unsatisfying his vengeance was, he quite possibly took more of his anger out on you,” Douglas says. “Understandable, but for an officer of Colonel Mustang’s stature, unacceptable. Our military is nothing if not just, especially to those who dutifully serve it.”

Russell manages to turn his hollow laugh into a cough.

“Hence, I encourage you to tell me your piece, major,” Douglas concludes. “Explain to me what happened, exactly as it happened, so that we might put this mess behind us.”

He knows, logically, that he’s been presented with a unique and incredible opportunity. From the sound of it, he needs only tell some passable lie for why he defied Mustang and he’ll be sent on his way with little more than a slap on the wrist. He should feel positively numb with relief—instead, he just feels numb. His mind is sluggish, the cogs unwilling to turn; it’s almost a chore to remind himself that he needs to think, to plan, to act.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Douglas tells him with an air of forced generosity, leaning back in his chair.

God, Russell can still smell Ross’ body burning.

“I disobeyed Colonel Mustang’s orders,” he hears himself say. “I wouldn’t think you would want to listen to any excuses of mine.”

“I want to listen to your side of the story,” Douglas says calmly. “I want to resolve this misunderstanding sooner rather than later.”

Before it was treason. Now it’s a misunderstanding. Suspicion worms its way through the numbness, and Russell lifts his head to meet Douglas’ eyes at last. Why are they being so lenient?

Douglas speaks again before Russell can. “If I may, Evergreen—weren’t you also acquainted with Brigadier General Hughes before his death?”

Not only will Colonel Douglas listen to his excuses, he just handed Russell one on a silver platter. Now Russell is alert, the fingers of his flesh hand curling into a fist in his lap. What is going on here? Why are they so eager to acquit him? Do they really think Mustang is so irrational, or something more ominous at work here? Russell swallows and sighs, glancing away from Douglas again.

“I was, colonel,” he tells him, injecting a note of wistfulness in his voice. “He was something of a friend of mine. You can only imagine my relief when I heard that his killer was captured—and my fury when I learned she escaped. I—I had to do something.”

“So you defied your commanding officer and acted on fabricated orders in the hope that you could bring her to justice,” Douglas says.

Russell shuts his eyes, feigning bashfulness. “It was wrong of me. And foolish.”

“It was _very_ foolish,” Douglas tells him. “We soldiers of the Amestrian military cannot allow our emotions to get the better of us. We must think rationally and logically, always, feeling nothing but desire to best service our nation. As you doubtless learned last night, the consequences when we act otherwise can be severe.”

He keeps his eyes closed, as though waiting for a judgment.

“That being said,” Douglas continues, “I _am_ reasonable, again, and I know that for all that you try—and for all your skills—you _are_ still fourteen, and human. We strive for perfection, but few ever achieve it. Mistakes will happen.”

Russell stares at the table through his eyelashes. _Is he hearing what he thinks he’s hearing?_

“We will not be so lenient next time, Major Tringham,” Douglas says, standing. “We will excuse this one error. From this point on, we expect you to follow your commanding officer’s orders to the letter. Heed that, and remember your place.”

Russell feels a jolt, and chills spread over the back of his neck. Douglas’ words are eerily reminiscent of the homunculus Lust’s, back in Laboratory 5. _Heed this. Know your place. Right now, you’re too valuable to eliminate._ Douglas may frame it as mercy, but Russell has the unsettling feeling that this is anything but. Still, he forces himself to appear grateful.

“Thank you for your sympathy, and know that my conduct will reflect my status as one of Amestris’ best from this point on,” Russell says, bowing his head in respect. The ghost of a smile flits over Douglas’ lips.

“See to it that that happens. You are dismissed.”

On his way out the door, Russell spots Mustang lingering outside. His shoulders are stiff, his mouth a thin line; the shadows under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept. He meets Russell’s gaze for just a moment, his expression impassive, and then turns on his heel and stalks off down the hall, his hands behind his back.

Normally, he might, but having spent the night in jail, Russell finds himself too exhausted to give it much thought. He heads in the opposite direction, eager to return to his hotel room, give Fletcher whatever reassurance he needs, and spend the rest of the day in bed.

He only makes it down the steps of Central Command, naturally, before a voice yells his name: “Major Tringham!”

Russell huffs out an exasperated sigh as a soldier runs toward him—a small, black-haired, round-cheeked soldier who might pass for fourteen better than Russell himself. Master Sergeant Kain Fuery bends over as soon as he comes to a stop, breathing hard, and then glances up through his thick glasses to address Russell in earnest.

“Major Tringham,” he repeats, still a little winded. “I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got news.”

“Can it wait?” Russell deadpans. Exhaustion is making him testy, or else his mood has dropped of its own accord and the sleeplessness only makes it worse. “I haven’t seen my brother or _slept_ since _your supervisor_ had me arrested.”

“It’s your mechanic,” Fuery says.

The exhaustion disappears in an instant.

“Belsio?” Russell asks in shock, and Fuery nods, still struggling to catch his breath, it seems. “What—what about him? Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

“I don’t—I don’t know for sure—” Fuery wrings his hands. “I didn’t get the call, Second Lieutenant Havoc did—apparently he—your mechanic, not the lieutenant—he collapsed, or something, just last night—”

“He _collapsed_?” Russell repeats. He rushes down the rest of the steps and grasps Fuery’s shoulders, giving him a small, desperate shake. “What do you mean, he _collapsed_? What’s wrong with him? Do you mean he had some sort of dizzy spell, or was it a—a heart attack?”

The very thought makes him cold and numb. His mother died of a sudden heart attack, four years ago—a little ill that morning, dead by evening, collapsed on her bedroom floor when Belsio came over and found her. Stress, the coroner had said gravely. Oh, there were certain risk factors at work as well—she’d had family members with heart disease, evidently, and she was about to be forty-one—but stress had been the final nail in her coffin. Like Russell, she never knew when to quit, and it snuffed her out like a candle.

Not Belsio, too, Russell thinks with growing desperation. _Please_. He may be blunt, sardonic, unyielding, but he’s always, always _there_. The thought of a world without him puts a sudden, vicious ache in his chest.

And Elisa—she’s already lost her parents. Losing Belsio would kill her.

“I don’t—I don’t know, major,” Fuery says again. “It might’ve been a heart attack, but I’m not sure.”

“I have to go see him,” Russell manages, heart hammering, breaths coming harsh and fast. He releases Fuery and looks around helplessly. “I—I have to go to Xenotime—”

“I know. That’s why I’m here,” Fuery tells him urgently. “I booked a train and everything, major. You just have to come with me.”

“Fletcher,” Russell says. “We have to get Fletcher.”

“There’s no time,” Fuery insists, taking Russell by the wrist. The identification bracelet clicks against his automail as Fuery jostles it. “I got us the first available train as soon as I heard and it leaves in fifteen minutes—we have to go _right now_. We can call your brother when we get there.”

It isn’t right to leave Fletcher in the dark—he’s probably worried sick about Russell as is, and he cares about Belsio, too—but the panic in Fuery’s face tells Russell there’s no time to argue. He turns on his heel and takes off down the street, where a car waits, and Russell follows him with his heart in his throat and his stomach in knots.

He can’t die. Not everyone can leave him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, it's been a minute, hasn't it? :') sorry about that; i've been focusing on the [fma big bang](http://fmabigbang.tumblr.com/), so keep an eye out for that in the next couple of months!! i hope you're all doing well and as always, i live and breathe your feedback, so tell me what you think!! <3

Thirty minutes later, Russell gnaws on his thumbnail and watches as Central becomes a speck in the distance.

Master Sergeant Fuery, sitting across from him, looks similarly anxious, though Russell can’t for the life of him pinpoint why. It might simply be that he’s the sort of person who catches others’ unease like a cold; Fletcher is the same. It probably hasn’t helped that Russell has been bombarding him with questions about Belsio since they left Central Command.

“Major Tringham, I’m really sorry, but I honestly don’t know anything else about what happened to your mechanic!” he finally bursts out as their train pulls out of Central City, just five minutes behind schedule. Impressive, for them. “I wish there was something I could tell you to keep you from worrying so much, but I only know what Second Lieutenant Havoc told _me_ and that’s it. I’m really, really sorry. Now, if it’s not too much to ask, could you please, _please_ stop badgering me about it? You’re stressing me out.”

Russell, momentarily yanked from his single-minded concern for Belsio by the exasperation in his voice, blinks. Fuery blushes and glances away. “Sir,” he tacks on belatedly.

After a moment, Russell forces out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says to Fuery. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I just—I’m worried, is all. This person is very important to me.”

“I gathered that, major,” Fuery answers wearily. His large, dark eyes flit around the compartment, like a frightened little bird. Then, very abruptly, Fuery stands. “I’d like to use the restroom if you’ll allow it, sir,” he says, his eyes on his shoes, his arms straight as his sides.

He could make his attempt to get away from him less transparent, Russell thinks with a touch of irritation, but he can’t bring himself to deny the request. “Sure,” he responds. Fuery salutes his thanks and ducks out of the compartment, leaving Russell alone with his thoughts. The more time that passes, the more foreboding these thoughts become, until Russell finds himself sitting with his knees brought up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, like he can stave off the inevitable the same way he would a chill.

So engrossed is he that he doesn’t initially notice the soft thumping noises coming from the luggage bins situated over the windows. At first, Russell tries to dismiss the sounds as shifting baggage—yet, as they continue, inching steadily closer until they’re directly overhead, suspicion digs its heels in. He shifts into a defensive position, his fingers curling into fists as he stares at the bin; the thumping turns to pounding, and the cover gives a subtle but ominous shake.

On his feet now, Russell quickly considers his options. Wait for Fuery. What good will that do if the thing in the overhead bin leaps out and attacks him? Open the bin. Who knows what’s hiding in there? It could be some rabid animal that crawled in while the train was stopped at some remote outpost, or a robber armed with more than just automail, unlike Russell. Leave. The smartest plan, most likely, but also the most cowardly, something Russell’s pride can’t stomach. He opts for the second choice and creeps carefully forward, making his footsteps as silent as possible, his left hand reaching out for the latch as his right rears back, ready to drive a metal fist into anything that dares to jump out at him.

_On the count of three_ , he tells himself, and steels himself with a breath. One—two— _three_. Russell seals his fingers around the latch and yanks it down. Ling Yao, shrieking in surprise, falls out of the bin, collides with Russell, and knocks them both to the ground.

Ling recovers first, balancing awkwardly on Russell’s lap as he tries to sit up. He glances down at Russell, still sprawled ungracefully on the floor, and a grin spreads over his face. “Well, look at that. I’m falling for you, Russell,” he quips, and then—while Russell flushes violently red—laughs, long and loud.

Russell, reeling, struggles to make sense of this turn of events. “Ling?” he manages, gaping up at him. Ling smiles wider. “Wh—what are you _doing_ here?!”

“Oh, you know. Just dropping in,” he answers. He sighs exaggeratedly when Russell, far from joining his laughter, continues to goggle. “That was a _joke_ , Russell. Friendship lesson number two: when friends make jokes, you’re supposed to _laugh_ , not _stare_ at them with that startled-rabbit look on your face. Though, I must say, it _does_ become you.” He gives another delighted peal of laughter when Russell’s cheeks get even darker.

“ _Why_ were you hiding in the _overhead bin_ , Ling?” he bites out. Against his will, his embarrassment leaks into his voice in the form of annoyance. “Tell me it wasn’t for the sake of making that joke.”

Unfazed, Ling rises in one seamless motion, holding out his hand to help Russell to his feet as well. “I was looking for _you_ , of course!” he responds, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I tried calling your hotel last night and the man at the desk said you’d disappeared, you and Fletcher both! First I figured you were just off doing some State Alchemist thing, but then _I_ got a call from _Fletcher_ a few hours later and he told me you got arrested! Lan Fan and I were freaking out, right? We thought we’d go to the jail and find out what happened and maybe vouch for you or something, but then we realized we didn’t know where the jail _was_.

“So this morning we went to the train station, where there’s that big board with all the maps by the ticket window, right, and while she’s sketching out where we’re supposed to go, _I_ happen to look over my shoulder and, lo and behold, there you are! I didn’t even have time to call your name before that twitchy little guy ushered you onboard, and, hell, I didn’t know _what_ was going on—if you were in trouble or in danger or _what_ —so I said, ‘Screw it,’ ran onboard, ducked into the first compartment I saw and had _just_ hauled my butt up in here—” he slaps the cover of the luggage bin, “—when they shut all the doors and took off. Then I just listened for your voice and picked my way through everyone’s crap to get to you.” He beams again. “And here I am.”

“Here you are,” Russell repeats in a faint voice, dumbfounded. Between how quickly Ling tells this story and the sheer _insanity_ of it, he finds himself unable to react for several moments, still processing it all. His brain pinballs through several different emotions—bafflement, naturally; guilt for having made him and Lan Fan worry; confusion about why he’d go to such lengths—and finally settles on, of all things, feeling kind of touched. Insane and illegal or not, the tangible display of affection makes him glow with warmth. He struggles to force his sentimental smile into a smirk. “You’re out of your mind, do you know that?”

“I might’ve heard,” Ling says cheekily, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

The door to the compartment rattles as it slides back open, admitting Fuery, who enters with the cautious air of rabbit venturing from its den, recloses the door, and then heaves a sigh of apparent relief as he leans against it. Almost immediately, he tenses up again, glancing over at Russell with an expression of unmistakable—if inexplicable—guilt.

“That was an awfully long bathroom break, master sergeant,” Russell remarks.

“I lied, major,” Fuery confesses before Russell’s last syllable leaves his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut. “There’s nothing wrong with your mechanic.”

The relief that floods through Russell lasts an entire three seconds before it morphs into anger.

“You _what_?!” he hollers, making Fuery wince. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?! You had me worried sick! Why would you _do_ something like—oh, my God.” Fuery attempts to melt into the door, and Ling has the foresight to seize Russell’s arm before he storms over and pins him there. “Mustang put you up to this, didn’t he?!” Russell shouts at Fuery.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t have a choice—”

“Oh, of _course_ you didn’t,” Russell says scathingly. “God, you are such a fucking sheep.”

Aggravating as Fuery’s compliance is, though, he’s infinitely more furious with—once again—Mustang. The _bastard_! Just thinking of him makes Russell see red and taste metal on the back of his tongue.

“I’m going to kill him,” he declares, his voice a snarl. “I’m going to fucking kill him!”

“Oh, no, major, please don’t,” Fuery pleads with him.

Hands, gentle but firm, grasp Russell’s tense shoulders, startling him. Ling’s easy smile doesn’t conceal his look of concern. “Come on, Russell, calm down a little,” he says.

“Please!” Fuery adds. He takes a careful step forward, even under the full force of Russell’s glower. “I know you’re upset, Major Tringham, and I don’t blame you, not at all! Believe me, I didn’t want to lie to you! But it was the only thing we could think of to make you come to Xenotime!”

“It’s _that_ important that he goes to Xenotime?” Ling asks dubiously.

Fuery, apparently just now noticing him, blinks. “Who are—” He decides better of it after a moment and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Yes, it’s very important that Major Tringham goes to Xenotime, or else we wouldn’t have gone to such extreme lengths. I swear it.”

In spite of himself, between Ling’s hands still on his shoulders and his burgeoning curiosity, Russell feels his explosive rage dulling to intense irritation. He exhales sharply through his nose; Ling encourages him by squeezing his shoulders. “Why is it so damn important that I go to Xenotime, then?” he grits out, still glaring at Fuery.

Fuery’s eyes flit away again to bounce around the compartment, his tongue in his teeth. “I—can’t tell you that yet, sir. _Yet_ ,” he adds hurriedly, clearly desperate to ward off more shouting. “Even without—” Again, his gaze darts about, the sentence left hanging. Russell suddenly remembers Fuery’s grasp of technology and wonders if his trip to the “bathroom” is why they can talk more freely. “But there’s some— _thing_ there that you really need to see.”

Russell narrows his eyes at him, still feeling distrustful of anyone so close to Mustang. Fuery seems to read this on his face. “I know you don’t trust the colonel very much right now, sir,” he says gently. “In light of what you’ve seen, again, I _really_ don’t blame you. What we’re hoping is that what you see when we get to Xenotime will convince you to change your mind.”

However much a smug, manipulative, now murdering bastard he is, Colonel Mustang _does_ know Russell. He knows that his forgiveness is not easily won, and that his trust, once lost, is nearly impossible to regain. Of course, in the year and a half that they’ve known each other, Russell never really _has_ trusted him, something else that Mustang is likely aware of. Whatever he wants to show Russell must be important indeed.

Ling—half-consciously, it feels like—rubs his fingers between Russell’s shoulder blades. The tension there gradually begins to ease, and Russell heaves another sharp sigh.

“You better show me something damn near miraculous, Fuery,” Russell tells him, though with much less heat.

A strange smile twitches on Fuery’s mouth. “You’re not far off the mark, sir.”

* * *

The train pulls into Xenotime shortly after ten o’clock. With no luggage to recover, Russell, Ling, and Fuery are among the first passengers to exit, Russell leading the way out of the cramped train station and into the street while Ling and Fuery take in the sight of his hometown.

“This is where you’re from, Russell?” Ling asks after several moments of silence.

He doesn’t sound particularly impressed. Why should he? Xenotime sits in the worst of Eastern Amestris’ badlands; the weeds poking up from between the cracks in the dry and dusty earth are the only spots of color for miles. It’s much larger than Resembool, but its layout—tiny stores and towering tenements practically sitting on top of each other, everything built up instead of out—and the almost unsettling sameness all around give it a claustrophobic feel. In a dustbowl like this, no amount of cleaning can keep a storefront from looking dingy, nor is anything particularly structurally sound when it’s built on bare bedrock. Russell feels his lips twist into a rueful smile.

“That’s right,” he answers. “Home sweet home, right here.” When Ling shifts his weight, a rare display of discomfort, Russell can’t stifle a small laugh. “It’s all right. I know it looks terrible.”

“It’s more—” This is Fuery, sounding tentative. He adjusts his glasses as he considers the scene. “Ironic, I guess? I mean, we call you ‘Evergreen’ and this place looks—”

“Dead,” Ling fills in bluntly. “Like a living ghost town.”

Russell concedes this with a shrug. “Fair enough. But, yes, Ling to answer your question, this is where I grew up. And this is where my mechanic lives. Are we still going to see him, master sergeant?” he adds, glancing over at Fuery.

To his slight surprise, Fuery bobs his head in agreement. “If you could show us the way, sir, since you’re the most familiar with this place.”

Russell’s small smile becomes a smirk. “Of course. I hope you don’t mind a bit of a walk—he lives on the other side of town, you see, and there aren’t many cars in these parts, city slicker.” Still a little annoyed at his ruse, Russell delights in seeing Fuery’s face fall.

“Of course, major,” he repeats faintly.

Despite their uniformity, years of practice have made Russell able to navigate these streets with relative ease. Ling falls in step beside him while Fuery trails behind, head bowed like a sad, defeated puppy.

“Everything’s so _dusty_ ,” Ling comments after a few moments, touching a mailbox and inspecting the dirt that comes away on his finger.

“Naturally. This is a mining town,” Russell says. “You can’t excavate hundreds of pounds of dirt a day without it getting everywhere.”

“Mining, major?” Fuery pipes up, sounding slightly breathless already between the warm, dry air and that thick uniform. “What do they mine here? Coal?”

Russell shakes his head. “Iron ore. Been this area’s chief industry for decades—centuries, even, if it’s true that people were mining here before Amestris was even founded like some stories say. Supposedly there used to be this great mountain at the foot of which Xenotime was built, but our miners reduced it to a hole in the ground ages ago, and it forms our largest excavation site. _The_ largest excavation site in the eastern region, actually, and third-largest in all of Amestris behind two located up north. The raw material we dig up is sold to factories mostly in East City, a few elsewhere, which is then refined and processed into pure iron and steel to be made into anything from toasters to military-grade weaponry.”

“There’s got to be a _huge_ market for that,” Ling says, lifting an eyebrow. He casts another glance around. “In which case, shouldn’t this place be a little … nicer? I mean, logically, you should be rolling in it, but it doesn’t look like that’s true.”

“Oh, no, most everyone here is poor as dirt,” Russell responds. “We don’t have the equipment to process what we excavate on our own, and the ore by itself is worthless if you can’t create actual iron out of it. Thus, the middleman—the operators of those factories in East City who are our main customers—can buy it for cheap, refine it using the machinery they have that we don’t, and then turn around and sell the product at a premium to even larger factories in Central.” He gives a humorless chuckle. “The people here get left in the dust—literally, since, as you can imagine, all that dirt and debris clogging one’s lungs often cause breathing problems later in life. The physical demands of the labor are also extreme and the deeper we have to dig, the more perilous the work becomes, and safety regulations are often disregarded if they clash with meeting our quotas, so accidents in the mines are fairly common. If you lose a limb, you’re one of the fortunate ones.”

“I mean, if you’re going to lose a limb—it’s still awful, but at least there’s an automail engineer who lives here,” Fuery says hesitantly. “Right, major?”

“The automail engineer who lives here is the best in the world,” Russell says, “and the most decent person that I know, after Fletcher, of course. Unfortunately, most people here see him as just someone else who profits from their labor more than they do. They even think he’s taking advantage of them, since he naturally makes most of his money after mine accidents happen. It’s a ridiculous line of thought, but given their circumstances, you can’t necessarily blame anyone here for being so cynical. Belsio predicts the town has another twenty or thirty years before the mines become too hazardous to probe and we’re all gradually forced to leave or starve.”

“He sounds like a cheerful guy,” Ling quips.

Russell can’t help it: the corner of his mouth twitches. “Oh, yeah. Real life of the party, that one.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Fuery pants, now trailing several feet behind Russell and Ling, “but are we almost there, do you think?”

“Oh, definitely,” Russell assures him, glancing back to flash a smile his way. “If I remember correctly, we should be about a mile out by now. No more than two.”

Fuery makes a noise expressing either relief or horror; Russell can’t tell which. Ling attempts to smother his snicker behind his hand.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asks in an undertone.

“What? Of course not,” Russell murmurs back, all innocence. “Though we _may_ have taken the long way, purely by accident.”

“You’re the _worst_.”

“I can hear both of you!” Fuery snaps, to more poorly muffled laughter.

True to Russell’s word, twenty minutes later, Ling makes a sound of delight. “Would you look at that! I see grass!”

Parched and patchy grass, yes, but instilled as far from Xenotime’s principal mine as possible, Belsio’s residence _does_ have more of a yard than most. He can even grow a select few things out back, and in windowsill gardens he keeps in his kitchen. The thought makes Russell smile, then sigh.

Almost two months since he last saw this house. Not just a busy schedule, but his own pride have kept him away; the longer he stares at it, the more guilt he feels, compounded by Fletcher’s suddenly conspicuous absence. He shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. He thinks it every time he returns, along with promises to himself that he won’t be as distant from now on, yet he falls into his old habits each time he leaves, as bad as ever at taking his own advice—and learning from his mistakes.

A girl—tall for almost twelve years old, olive-skinned, and wearing her long, chestnut hair in a low ponytail—comes around the house with several boxes of screws cradled in her arms. Glancing up, she startles at the sight of visitors, recognizes Russell, and promptly drops the boxes at her feet to march over to him, her expression indignant. Russell attempts an appeasing smile.

“You’ve gotten taller, Elisa,” he offers.

She barks out a laugh. “Y’all listen to this boy! Comes crawlin’ back here after not botherin’ to show his face for _weeks_ and that’s all he’s got to say! ‘You’ve gotten taller’—gimme a _break_ , Russell. You’re so full of crap your eyes are turnin’ brown.”

“Look, I’m sorry, all right? I can’t help being so busy,” Russell says. Far from mollified, Elisa snorts.

“S’what you always say. Guess you got somethin’ that needs fixin’, then? You get hurt?” Her brown eyes flick down. “Or are you limpin’ again ‘cause your leg’s too short?”

“That happened _once_ ,” Russell reminds her. He feels the beginnings of an angry, embarrassed flush. “And, no, my automail doesn’t need any repairs. I just want to see Belsio. It’s the truth!” he adds a bit irritably when she cocks an eyebrow.

Elisa considers him for several moments longer than necessary, dubious as can be. Then, she huffs out a resigned sigh. “Oh, fine, then. This oughta be good, at least,” she says. She retrieves her boxes of screws to take them in the house. “He’s upstairs. Follow me.”

Russell obeys with a sharp sigh of his own, Ling and Fuery close behind. Fuery doesn’t seem to know how to react to this little exchange; Ling, on the other hand, is unabashedly amused. “If Belsio’s anything like his daughter, I’m looking forward to meeting him,” he says happily.

“Oh, they’re just alike. Don’t worry,” Russell mutters. “Though she isn’t his daughter—she’s his niece.”

“ _And_ protégée,” Elisa calls loftily over her shoulder, leading them into the house. Belsio has it arranged so that the first floor functions as his place of business—waiting room in front, work and operating rooms in the back—and the second is his actual residence, accessible by a staircase behind a door off to the side. Elisa crosses over to this door after leaving her boxes on the front counter. “Who fixed your arm all by herself after you went and broke it sneakin’ into that secret laboratory in Central a little while back?”

_Who forgot a screw after begging her uncle to let her do the tune-up by herself and made the arm susceptible to breakage in the first place?_ It crosses Russell’s mind to retort with this, but even delivered with a smile, it would probably come off as cruel, particularly since Elisa is very sensitive. Belsio claims she gets it from her father. Having never met the man, Russell can’t confirm this, but it makes the most sense if Elisa’s mother was anything like her younger brother: Belsio has composure the likes of which the military would envy.

“Fair enough,” Russell says instead, conceding. Elisa bounds up the remaining stairs with something of a smug spring in her step. Behind him, Russell recognizes Ling’s snigger.

Elisa looks over her shoulder again when they reach the top of the stairs. “Uncle Belsio’s got people over, so y’all be polite,” she says, and then, before Russell inquire about this—Belsio’s even worse about making friends than he is—she throws open the door and calls out, “Uncle Belsio! Look what I dragged in!”

A man appears in the doorway of the kitchen. Save his tall, thin build, he’s Russell’s physical opposite: deep brown skin, jet black hair, dark, narrow eyes in an angular face, and an expression of complete and total impassivity where Russell’s composure wavers in equal parts annoyance and guilt. Noticing him, as well as the look on his face, Belsio lifts an eyebrow.

“Well, hello, stranger,” he says. “What brings you here? You get shot again?”

Annoyance wins out, and Russell’s mouth twitches into a scowl. “Ling, Fuery,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the pair of them, “this is my mechanic, John Belsio, in all his unhelpfully sarcastic glory.”

“Don’t call me that,” Belsio tells him, squinting in displeasure. “You know better than to call me that.”

“He hates his first name,” Russell explains to Fuery and Ling, while Belsio turns on his heel and walks back into the other room. He raises his voice a bit. “So you should definitely call him that.”

“Did you honestly spend hours worrying yourself sick about your mechanic just to antagonize him as soon as you saw him?” Fuery demands, his voice high and thin with exasperation. A dry chuckle, Belsio’s, emanates from the kitchen.

“Oh, believe me. If he wasn’t trying to get a rise out of me, I’d think he was sick or something.”

It earns a sigh from Fuery and another treacherous giggle from Ling. Russell huffs, his breath blowing his bangs out of his face, before he follows Belsio into the kitchen.

Then, he stops dead, lips parting in shock.

In his peripheral vision, he sees that strange smile has returned to Fuery’s mouth, while Ling blinks in bemusement. Only Belsio seems entirely unperturbed as he refills everyone’s cups, either unaware or uncaring that his guests are the last two people Russell could have possibly imagined taking tea with him: Edris’ older bodyguard, Pinako, and Second Lieutenant Maria Ross.

“What part of ‘be polite’—oh, screw it,” Elisa mutters. Belsio lifts an eyebrow at her language, but hands her a mug of tea without comment and steps aside so that she can hoist herself up onto the counter. “Well, come sit down,” she says to Russell, still gaping in the doorway. “‘Fore you start catchin’ flies.”

“I—I don’t—how—?” Russell shuts his mouth tight against his stammering, shakes his head to clear it, and then bursts out, “ _What_ is going on here?!”

To Ross, Ling asks casually, “Aren’t you dead?”

A wan smile crosses her lips. It’s hard to believe that Russell saw her just yesterday: this woman looks nearly gaunt with exhaustion, her dark eyes hollow in her ashen face and her shoulders looking small and slumped under one of Belsio’s shirts. “No, not quite,” she responds. Her eyes turn suddenly glassy, and she occupies herself with her tea.

Fuery. Russell twists his head in his direction, where Belsio pushes a mug of tea into his hands despite his weak protests and directs him to a chair. The moment he sits down, Russell hurries to his side and takes the seat next to him to say insistently, “You knew about this, didn’t you? You and Mustang both!”

“Of course _I_ knew—it’s what I brought you here to see—and Colonel Mustang arranged the whole thing,” Fuery answers.

“ _What_ whole thing?” Russell presses. He looks at Ross. “Why aren’t you dead?” Then, he remembers Pinako, who coolly watches the scene before her. “And why aren’t _you_ trying to kill me?”

“Whatever conflict is between you and the prince can stay between you and the prince,” she tells him calmly, pausing after to take a sip of tea. “Outside of His Highness’ orders, I don’t care to get involved.”

“O—okay, then. But, you? Alive?” Russell says, returning to Ross. “I saw you die! I saw your body!”

“You saw Colonel Mustang _fake_ my death to draw out those responsible for Maes Hughes’,” she explains. “Now the real killer or killers will be lulled into a false sense of security, making it easier for Mustang to sniff them out, see?”

“They transmuted the ‘corpse’ from slabs of raw meat,” Fuery adds. “The coroner, Doctor Knox—he’s a friend of theirs—was in on it, too. That’s why he faked the autopsy report.”

The reality of it settles over Russell like gently falling snow. Mustang didn’t kill Lieutenant Ross. He faked the murder to protect her from the military, wherein lies the real culprit or culprits behind Hughes’ death, which means—

“He isn’t really on their side! He’s only pretending to be to use their resources to find out what he needs to know!”

Fuery smiles and nods.

“Then why did have me thrown in jail?”

“Why did he _what_?” Belsio repeats, eyebrow shooting upward.

Before Russell can do more than freeze, Fuery says, “They didn’t have much of a choice, did they? They had to keep up their front of being too enraged and vengeful over Brigadier General Hughes’ death to think properly. And you _did_ technically break the law. It would have looked suspicious if they had let you go.”

Russell does his best to ignore Belsio’s pointed stare as he mulls this over. Fuery’s explanation makes sense—yet, something still nags at Russell. Faking someone’s death, protecting a fugitive from the military, even deeming the government responsible for his friend’s assassination—these are not actions of someone going against his superiors for the first time. This is a person who has acted on his own more often than not, so subtly, so quietly that Russell, keen as he likes to think he is, never noticed.

Time after time, Mustang has warned him to remain in line, keep his head down, follow all orders to the letter or risk severe consequences. Were his many disparaging remarks and barely-restrained tirades merely parts of his military dog act, in case anyone had their ears pressed to his door? Or—and the thought nearly has Russell flustered, his eyes widening and his cheeks heating the tiniest amount—has Mustang been trying to protect him from the very beginning?

“What about you, then?” Russell asks Pinako, returning his attention to her. She must have some part in this—it’s too much to believe that she’s here by coincidence—but he can’t imagine what it is. She only drinks more of her tea in response, gold eyes flitting expectantly to Fuery.

“I’ll let you explain,” she says when she lowers her cup. “You seem to like doing the talking.”

“Uh—okay, then.” Fuery clears his throat. “Well, um, Warrant Officer Falman—wait, let me go back. Do you remember Barry the Chopper?”

There’s a clatter and a smash. Russell whips around, along with Ling and Fuery, and sees Elisa with her hands pressed over her mouth, her mug in pieces on the floor at her feet.

“S—sorry,” she whispers through her fingers. “I’ll—”

“I’ll get it,” Belsio murmurs to her. “It’s okay.”

She slides off the counter and ducks out of the room. After making quick work of the mess, Belsio follows her.

Fuery swallows guiltily as Russell levels him with a glower. “Does that answer your question?”

“A-anyway. After the skirmish at Lab Five, we detained Barry the Chopper at an apartment in the slums of Central with Warrant Officer Falman keeping watch over him. We thought he might have information for us!” Fuery insists when Russell gapes at him. “And he did prove useful to us—he broke Lieutenant Ross out of prison. When he came back afterward, he’d brought someone with him.”

“Prince Edris,” Russell murmurs. Fuery nods again.

Now it’s Ross who speaks. “Besides Colonel Mustang’s team, the people in this house are the only ones who know I’m alive,” she explains in a thin, trembling voice. “I can’t—c-can’t even tell my parents.” She chokes up, and Pinako pats her forearm as she covers her face with her hand.

“Obviously, it’s not safe for her here,” Pinako continues for her. “So I’ll take her with me back to Xerxes. She can hide there until this whole mess gets cleared up.”

Ross nods, lowering her hand and inhaling deeply. She’s clearly fighting tears.

“They’re leaving sometime today,” Fuery says. “As soon as I get the signal from Lieutenant Havoc.”

“What about Belsio?” Ling asks.

“What about him?” He reenters the kitchen, cocking an eyebrow, while Elisa shuffles past where he leans against the doorframe to quietly reclaim her seat on the counter. Ling looks back at him, unfazed.

“How did _you_ get involved? Did Fuery or Mustang contact you so you’d take them in when they showed up?”

Belsio snorts. “You think these people tell me anything? No. The pair of ‘em turned up late last night and I did what I would’ve done otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Ross blurts out, more shakily than ever. “R-really—thank you.”

Belsio blinks, clearly somewhat startled. He gives an awkward cough and merely nods in response before he crosses over to the teakettle on the stove to fiddle with it, his back to them all.

“When are you supposed to get this ‘signal’?” Pinako asks Fuery. “I’d really like to get a move on—I do have business to attend to back home.”

“You aren’t coming back?” Russell says, his eyes widening a bit. “What about Ed?” He obviously doesn’t know her nor her granddaughter well, but their one encounter made them both seem like Ed’s attack dogs, little more. He’s therefore slightly surprised that she’s so readily leaving him behind.

“Prince Edris can take care of himself, and Winry can keep him out of too many fights,” Pinako replies. “No, my country needs me more right now, what with the king as sick as he is, his decision still not made, and both of his sons running like fools through Amestris looking for that Philosopher’s Stone—”

“Ed’s brother is in Amestris, too?” Russell interrupts. “Almas?”

Pinako grunts in agreement. “Yes, he is. Though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell him that,” she adds. Her expression darkens. “I don’t want him doing anything he’ll regret, and he tends to where Prince Almas is involved.”

Still standing by the stove, Belsio gives a quiet but audible huff. “If I never hear another word about the damn Philosopher’s Stone, it’ll be too soon,” he mutters. He raises his voice and addresses Pinako. “Do your princes or whoever a favor and tell them to stop wasting their time. Maybe _they’ll_ be convinced.”

He gives Russell a meaningful glance. Russell stares stonily back at him, his eyes narrowed to slits and his jaw tight.

Ling cuts through the tension as easy as anything. “Russell was right; you really _are_ a downer.”

“I’m not either. I’m _realistic_ ,” Belsio says coolly. “And the _reality_ is that there’s a better case to be made for a giant mole living in the mines than for the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“The mole’s real!” Elisa insists. “I told you, my friend Charlotte’s big brother saw it when he and the rest of grade eight went on that field trip to tour the mines last yea—oh, sorry.”

“There’s plenty of evidence to support the existence of the Philosopher’s Stone. You just ignore or dismiss it every time it’s presented to you,” Russell responds.

“‘Evidence’ is something you can see and touch, not some stuffy old lab-coat saying, ‘Oh, yes, it’s definitely real because this dirty old scroll my dog found buried in the backyard probably says so.’”

“Belsio is a mechanic,” Russell tells everyone else, “and as such, refuses to believe anything that can’t be shoved right under his nose.”

“Yeah, yeah. _I’m_ the stubborn one,” Belsio mutters. He pours himself more tea and knocks it back like it’s whiskey.

“Riddle me this, then,” Ling says, cheerful as ever as he straddles the back of his chair to face Belsio by the stove. “If the Philosopher’s Stone’s just a story, then what do you think happened to Creta? You know, the country that fell in one night?”

He’s still facing away from Russell, but it’s easy to imagine that Belsio rolls his eyes. “It’s a morality tale, obviously,” he says. “‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’ with a sci-fi twist. ‘Don’t get a big head or you’ll hurt yourself and everyone around you.’ Simple as.”

“You don’t deny that Creta existed?” Ling asks.

“Of course not.”

“And that it doesn’t anymore?”

“Duh. It’s been taken off the map for a reason.”

“Then what happened?” Russell cuts in, unable to help himself.

Belsio remains unruffled as ever, finally turning away from the stove to lean against the counter beside Elisa with his arms folded. “Who knows? Natural disaster, famine, everyone got bored and started killing each other. It’s lost to history. When people don’t know stuff, they start making up all kinds of crazy stories—and you alchemists are the guiltiest of it by far. No offense.”

“Mm, I don’t know. I think alchemists are more creatively inclined than regular people, and what people don’t understand, they just call crazy.” Ling disguises what might have been an intentional dig with a blithe smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. The slight narrowing of Belsio’s eyes says that he heard the insult, but true to form, he doesn’t take the bait; he only sighs resignedly.

“You have to admit that there isn’t any other explanation for how Creta fell in just one night,” Russell insists.

Belsio doesn’t concede. “Can you _prove_ Creta fell in just one night?”

“Can you prove it didn’t?” Ling asks.

“Can I—?” Belsio gives a small huff. “Well, no.” When Ling’s grin widens, he adds with a touch of irritation at last, “But that doesn’t mean a thing. You could say _anything_ is real or possible if the only thing you’ve got going for you is that no one’s proven it _isn’t_.”

“Exactly!” Ling exclaims, his eyes shining victoriously. “ _Now_ you’re thinking like an alchemist!”

While Belsio flushes, Elisa finally speaks in an exasperated voice. “For God’s sake, do we gotta have this argument _every_ time Russell comes home, you two? Either agree to disagree or take it out back and duke it out, but don’t stand around bitching at each other, especially when we’ve got guests in the house.” She huffs. “Can’t believe I gotta be Fletcher here.”

“Yes, you quoted my brother verbatim,” Russell mumbles. Still, she _does_ have a point. Falling back into old habits yet again—color creeps up Russell’s neck as he averts his gaze. Stupid.

The shriek of the telephone cuts through the sudden, awkward silence. Fuery, not Belsio, ducks out to answer it; he returns with grim determination in his face. “Lieutenant—it’s time to go.”

Ross sets her jaw as she nods. “Right.” Pinako supports her with a hand on her elbow as they stand, draping tan cloaks over their arms that will protect them from the harsh sun once they enter the desert. Ross breathes slowly and deeply, her eyes shut tight; when they open again, tears shimmer there like rainwater on a windowpane.

“Thank you,” she says throatily, regarding each of them in turn: Fuery, Belsio, even Ling and Elisa. She ends with Russell and lets her gaze settle there. “I won’t forget what you’ve all done for me today. I promise I’ll repay you as soon as I can—you haven’t seen the last of me.”

“You’re really brave, Miss Ross,” Elisa tells her. Ross doesn’t correct her to _Lieutenant_ ; she only glances back at her with a watery smile and allows Elisa to bound over to her and engulf her in a hug. “You’re gonna be okay. I know you are. And we’ll be right here if you ever need us again, ‘kay?”

“Thank you,” Ross whispers again. Finally, the tears fall, dotting the top of Elisa’s messy brown hair. “You’re a sweet girl.”

She pulls away after a few seconds with another deep breath. Then, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, she looks at a solemn Pinako. “All right. I’m ready.”

Russell should say something, he knows. Apologize for his part in forcing her to flee. Offer his own condolences. Even a simple _goodbye_ would be better than staring at her with his lips slightly parted, like he’s unable to believe his eyes. She’s already crossed the kitchen before he can make his decision, her face shadowed as she dons her cloak.

Before she leaves the room, Pinako behind her, Fuery abruptly stands and salutes. Russell, despite outranking her, does the same.

* * *

When he was six years old, Russell, in a fit of emotion, ran away from home. Of course, being six, he didn’t make it very far; he got to the slag heap about a quarter of a mile from his and Belsio’s houses before he had to stop, and simply pouted there until his mother came to collect him that evening for dinner.

This is where he goes now, hoping to quiet his buzzing mind. And this is why, against all logic, he almost expects to see Allison Tringham when he hears footsteps crunching the gravel below him.

“There you are,” Ling says, his hands on his hips. “You missed lunch. I had to eat yours for you so it wouldn’t go bad.”

Feeling sullen, Russell snorts and looks away.

“Hey. I didn’t really, Russell. We saved you a plate. I was joking again.”

“I’m not really in a joking mood.”

Ling climbs the mound of hard-packed dirt until he sits with Russell on top, his knees pulled up to his chest. “Want to talk about it?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Russell mutters, looking at the scuff marks on his boots.

“Is it Lieutenant Ross? Or Hughes’ death?”

“No. I mean—yes, kind of, but. No.” Russell blows out a breath and tilts his head back. “It’s being back here. It’s being back here and feeling like I’m the same person I was when I left. Like I’ve accomplished nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Ling says at once, looking at Russell in earnest. “You’ve learned a lot even just since I first met you, and I’ve only known you a couple of months. You’ve just got to remember that setbacks are usually temporary, and even when they’re not, well, sometimes it’s okay to fail.”

He doesn’t know. It pangs in Russell’s chest and leaves behind an ache, one that has him hugging his knees tighter. Ling doesn’t know what he did—that he committed the ultimate sin, defied alchemy’s greatest law, and tried to resurrect his mother, costing him his arm and leg and Fletcher his entire body. He doesn’t know that, in rectifying that, failure _isn’t_ an option. Ling’s words may be comforting, his expression soft as his hand reaches for Russell’s, but the gap between what Russell knows and what Ling doesn’t drives a wall between them that no gesture of friendship can breach: Russell closes his eyes and moves further away.

“And Belsio doesn’t help,” he adds after a moment. “I know he means well, but the way he keeps hinting that he hates everything I do and wants me to stop doesn’t make me feel any better about it all. Of course he’s entitled to his opinion, but you would think, in spite of that, he could offer more support.”

Ling’s quiet for a moment. “He’s not just your mechanic, is he?” he asks. “Like. You’ve got a relationship beyond mechanic and patient.”

“I’ve known him all my life. He was my neighbor growing up and a close friend of my mother’s. He’s got a personality like sandpaper, and sometimes trying to reason with him is like talking to a brick wall, but I know that he cares about me. And I care about him.” He sighs. “Then I became a State Alchemist, and things got complicated.”

“I can imagine,” Ling murmurs. “He was just your mother’s friend, though? Not your father’s?”

“I don’t think my father had any friends,” Russell mumbles. He shifts his shoulders. “I mean, I’m sure that they must have known each other; Belsio was over a good bit when I was younger and sometimes he watched Fletcher and me when my parents were busy. But I never saw them interact, and Belsio doesn’t really talk about him the way he does my mother. I don’t know.”

“Well, either way—even if it feels like he’s constantly dragging on you, Belsio’s probably just trying to keep you from doing anything he thinks will get you hurt. You know, because he cares about you. Fu’s the same way, really. Actually, come to think of it, so’s Lan Fan,” Ling adds, and then chuckles. “All you can really do is just try to remember that and not take it personally.”

“I suppose,” Russell mutters, not convinced.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ling’s mouth twist into a sad smile. “I’m not helping you much, am I?”

“I—think I just need to be alone right now,” Russell says, more than a bit guiltily. On top of everything, now he’s hurt Ling’s feelings. “If you want to head back, I’ll meet you there in a little while, okay?”

“Okay,” Ling agrees, but it sounds uncertain. He stands, and his fingers brush Russell’s flesh shoulder. “Just—”

He breaks off, though, leaving the sentence hanging, and then carefully climbs down from the slag heap to start back toward Belsio’s house. Russell presses his forehead against his knees with a loud, long sigh.

* * *

“Uncle Belsio says if you don’t eat something, he’ll have your head,” Elisa greets him the moment he walks through the door. She and Ling are sitting side by side on the floor in front of the coffee table, workbooks and papers spread out in front of them. “I’m paraphrasin’ a little. But you better eat.”

Russell dutifully takes plate saved for him from lunch off the counter and sits cross-legged on the sofa with it, though he’s more interested in which Ling and Elisa. It looks like he’s helping her with her homework; the loud, agitated groans she gives every couple of seconds support that theory.

“I’m gonna be an _automail engineer_ when I grow up!” she finally bursts out. “Why the hell do I gotta know _vocabulary_?”

“Because knowing big words makes you sound smart,” Ling answers. “And if you sound smart, your patients are probably going to trust you to take their limbs off and mess around with them. These words aren’t even that hard, come on.” He peers at the workbook. “‘Exasperate.’ Hey, you know that word! That’s what Russell does to you!”

“That’s _Ling’s_ middle name,” Russell tosses back, but without any heat. He’s actually trying to hide a smile as he takes another bite of food, while Ling and Elisa go further down her list.

Russell worries that he might—he’s far from the most tactful person he knows—but Ling doesn’t ask Elisa about the big, bold _5_ in the right-hand corner of each of her workbook pages. With just a few months until her twelfth birthday, she should be in grade six, not grade five; rather than being held back, she started school a year late because of a mine accident that killed her parents just as she was about to begin kindergarten. Russell was only a child himself, but he remembers hearing from his mother how Elisa was passed from relative to relative in the following months, until the court finally placed her in Xenotime’s poorly maintained, dilapidated community home. Then, at last—with Russell’s mother vouching for him—Belsio got custody of her.

“ _But he’s her uncle_ ,” Russell remembers Fletcher saying. “ _Why didn’t they give Elisa to him first?_ ”

“ _Elisa’s dad didn’t really like him,_ ” Allison had answered. “ _And, well—neither does anybody else._ ”

“ _How come?_ ”

“ _Because they’re stupid,_ ” Russell had chimed in, having decided yet again that he liked Belsio after all, and it had been left at that.

Elisa had been so shy when she first moved in with Belsio, forever peeking around corners whenever Russell and Fletcher were over so that only her huge brown eyes were visible. It took weeks, _months_ of coaxing, but gradually, she came out of her shell; now she can befriend anyone she meets within mere minutes of talking to them, her opinions loud and her heart the size of the moon. Russell feels something warm and nearly brotherly just thinking of the shift.

Yet—there’s something bittersweet, too. He gazes at Elisa and Ling, hip-to-hip and giggling like long-lost siblings, and a fist seems to close around his heart and squeeze it tight. Presented before him is an image of complete and total _normalcy_ : his friend helping his neighbor with her homework, dusk falling gently outside, the faint sounds of Belsio tinkering in his workroom downstairs. Soon it will be time for dinner, and they’ll enjoy more mundane conversation, perhaps, like Elisa telling Ling more about the mole in the mines, or Belsio elaborating on his latest project or patient. Though he’s still in Central, it’s all too easy to insert Fletcher into the picture, squeezed beside Elisa and Ling, or setting the table, or perched on the arm of Russell’s chair to chatter excitedly about whatever he learned or did today.

He’s human in this fantasy, absolutely: blond hair fluffing all about—no brush or comb can tame it; they’ve tried it all—blue eyes wide and sparkling, round cheeks flushed with happiness. His body feels soft and warm as he squishes next to Russell in the armchair, and his breath when he laughs tickles Russell’s neck as he playfully tries to shove him away.

Could he have had this? Had he never attempted the transmutation—had he never bullied Fletcher into it—could this have been his?

In his heart, Russell knows the answer: no.

Because, with their mother dead and their father disappeared, the same court that had seized Elisa turned its eyes upon Russell and Fletcher. Belsio’s poor reputation nearly kept him from his own sister’s daughter; Xenotime’s court would never allow him to claim two children who weren’t even of his blood, regardless of what Allison would have wanted. That left one place for Russell and Fletcher to go—the community home. Where, rumor had it, children slept five to a room and worked their fingers to the bone, coming to school with heavy eyes and quivering lips and the marks of angry hands on their faces and arms. Where Elisa lived for a scant two or three months to return so frightful and fidgety, she would cry if anyone spoke above a murmur for six straight weeks.

Where children were separated by age, and called by the names on their birth certificates regardless of whether their identities, like Fletcher’s, had changed since then. Russell wouldn’t be able to protect him, to correct anyone who used the wrong terms or pronouns when Fletcher was too timid, or to offer him the heaps of support and physical affection he had always needed plenty of.

Russell could never allow that to happen. Never. Back then, resurrecting their mother had looked like the only option to save them—save _Fletcher_ —from that.

And then he damned his brother to one even worse.

If he believed in fate, he’d think the deck had been stacked against them both from the start.

He stands so abruptly, he almost knocks his picked-over plate from the arm of his chair; his lunge to recover it makes Elisa and Ling both look his way.

“I think I’m going to take a walk,” he says, before Elisa can comment on how little he ate.

“You just got back!” Elisa exclaims, at the same time Ling asks, “Now? It’s almost dark.”

“I’ll be back before then,” Russell responds without looking at either of them, returning his plate to its spot on the counter. He dons his coat, pulls his gloves taut over his fingers, and takes off down the stairs with their bewildered gazes following him the whole way.

On the first floor, Belsio hears the sound of the door from the other room. “Elisabeth,” he says sternly.

“Russell,” he corrects. “I’ll be back before it gets too dark. Don’t wait for me to eat.”

There’s a long, heavy pause, Russell hesitating with his hand on the doorknob while Belsio seems to digest this. “Okay,” he finally says.

Russell slips out of the house and shuts the door quietly behind him.

* * *

It wasn’t a total lie. He _does_ plan to take a walk. However, his words made it sound like he had no particular destination in mind; _that_ isn’t true, but he didn’t want to risk anyone accompanying him.

At twilight, the cemetery is completely empty, just as Russell had hoped.

He hasn’t been to see his mother’s grave since the funeral. He never saw the point; after he recovered from automail surgery and got his certification in Central, he only ever returned to Xenotime to have his automail adjusted, which was enough of a reminder of what had happened. Allison hadn’t been particularly sentimental, but it feels suddenly wrong that Russell has never left her flowers, or paid any respects besides trying to drag her from her tomb.

That was one of his and Fletcher’s first transmutations. Flowers for their mother.

“ _Ha! Would you look at that!_ ” He remembers the delight in her face as she held them, her eyes shining with pride while Fletcher hugged her around the waist and Russell bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet. “ _You two really did this all by yourselves?_ ”

Fletcher nodded happily, while Russell said, “ _Can we show Father? Can we? Can we please?_ ”

That had dimmed her spirits; her eyes grew clouded, and she took her bottom lip between her teeth. Finally, in an odd voice, she said brusquely, “ _I don’t think he’d appreciate them very much, kiddo._ ”

She’d been right.

Always distant—it was like a wall separated Nash Tringham from the rest of humanity. No; a fortress. For the eight years of Russell’s life that included him, he tried so, so hard to breach that fortress, and failed each and every time.

So had Allison, though she’d given up on Nash by the time Fletcher could toddle. The night that he left, she had only one thing to say.

“ _You walk out that door, and you’re never allowed back._ ”

Peering under his bedroom door, Russell thought he saw Nash’s feet hesitate. _Please_ , he remembers thinking. _Don’t do it._

Stacked against them, from the very beginning.

Four years since his feet walked this path, but Russell finds Allison’s headstone with relative ease. He holds a bundle of flowers he transmuted from the grass nearby; he doesn’t remember the flowers he first created for her, but forget-me-nots seem appropriate.

Yet, right under her name, he sees lilies already lying there. The petals are fresh.

Russell blinks, nonplussed. Who would leave lilies for his mother? Belsio, possibly, but he would have mentioned visiting her today, since Russell’s here. She had many acquaintances, but few close friends; he can’t imagine any of them leaving flowers for her and her alone, and the nearby graves are unadorned.

Then who—?

Lifting his eyes, Russell sees the figure in the distance, tall and wrapped in a trench coat that flutters in the breeze.

Russell remembers that coat.

Of their own accord, his feet carry him in that direction, the flowers falling forgotten from his fingers as he stares.

His eyes just make out the inscription on the headstone in front of the man—the joint grave of Mary and Tobias Lemac—when he hears Russell behind him. He startles, whipping around, and Russell freezes like a deer in headlights.

“Russell,” his father says.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone out there know how to write a short chapter because i keep cranking out these behemoths. oh, well. between school starting back and the fma big bang, i'll be taking a short hiatus on this fic, but keep yourself occupied with this monster chapter till then!! <3 as always, thanks for reading and remember to leave feedback if you can!!
> 
> i do want to point out that there is a **slight content warning for mentioned child abuse** in this chapter, beginning at the phrase _expression impassive_ and ending at _cruel words_. if you need to skip over that small bit, feel free. stay safe!!

The word spills from Russell’s lips before he can stop it: “Hi.”

Then, he shuts his mouth so quickly that his teeth clack, color flooding his face. Hi. The first time that he’s seen his father in six years, and he says _hi_. Seriously? Russell chews the inside of his cheek and waits.

“Hi,” Nash responds.

Does he look as nervous as Russell feels, or is it his imagination? He was never that good at reading his father; even now, despite how much better he must have gotten at parsing others’ expressions in the time that’s passed, Nash remains as inscrutable as Russell remembers, his gray eyes cool and his face calm and blank. Russell swallows against the sudden knot in his throat.

Yet, before he can decide what to say, Nash speaks first. “I didn’t know—” he begins, and then pauses. Russell’s fingers twitch. “I didn’t know about—about your mother.”

_Oh._ What a way to begin their conversation: recounting his mother’s death. The color in Russell’s face drains from it, leaving him pale.

“Y—yeah,” he says. “She, um. She died after y—a few years ago.”

_After you left_ , he almost said, but he hurriedly chokes back that phrase. If Nash notices, he doesn’t comment, blinking instead in what Russell thinks is dull shock.

“I didn’t believe it,” he murmurs, to himself more than to Russell. “When they...” He trails off. His words don’t make sense to Russell, but he doesn’t dare ask him to elaborate. “What happened to her?” he asks.

It’s hard to meet his eyes. The automail feels heavy on his shoulder; Russell shifts, not wanting to call attention to it under his clothes.

“She had a heart attack,” he says softly. “It was—it was really sudden. There was nothing that anyone could do for her.”

Nash nods slowly in understanding. Then, he casts a glance to the headstone behind him bearing Elisa’s parents’ names. “And Mary Lemac was—”

“Belsio’s sister. Mine accident,” Russell tells him. “She and her husband both.”

“I thought the Lemacs ran the inn,” Nash says.

“They did. But it went under, so.” Russell clears his throat. “Their little girl—well, not so little, she’s about Fletcher’s age now—”

“Who?”

There’s so much that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know about Fletcher. Russell feels a vicious stab of guilt to say the name he hasn’t attributed to his brother in years.

“Diana. But that isn’t his name anymore. _His_ name—” Russell places gentle emphasis on the pronoun, “—is Fletcher now. And Elisabeth, Elisa, she lives with Belsio. She’s, uh.” His tongue feels swollen enough to burst. “She’s a really good kid. Takes after her uncle a lot. But she’s more talkative.”

Nash keeps his eyes on the grave as he asks his next question. “How _is_ Belsio?”

“He’s … fine. Popular as ever, but it doesn’t bother him much, you know.” Russell rubs his right arm with the palm of his left. Through the fabric of his shirt and coat, he feels the steel as easy as anything.

Finally, Nash looks back at him. “And how are you, Russell?”

He flushes again, all the way down to his collar; the heat contrasts sharply with the cool metal of his automail bolted there. It doesn’t peek out above his shirt, does it? Russell’s hand slides up to the join, as if to further hide it from Nash’s eyes.

“I’m fine, too, Father.” Without his meaning to, his voice comes out a near whisper. “Really.”

Nash’s eyes flit to Russell’s hand on his shoulder, and Russell feels a thrill of fear. He pulls the hand away so quickly it might have burned him—but too late.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” his father asks.

His heart drops as if to join the bodies below his feet.

“My arm,” Russell repeats, his voice softer and higher than normal. His arm. The question—so simple, so _not_ —seems to leave behind an echo: _your arm. Your arm. Your arm._ The fingers want to form a fist, as they often do when Russell feels defensive, but he doesn’t let them, afraid the minute squeak of the steel joints will be audible in the sudden, deafening silence.

It crosses his mind, very briefly, to lie. _There isn’t anything wrong with my arm, Father._ In a way, it isn’t a falsehood at all: Garfiel’s prosthetic has taken to Belsio’s port surprisingly well, with no issues to report since Russell left Rush Valley. And yet ... no. He meets Nash’s eyes, the gray turned silver in the slowly fading light, and feels a sort of yearning that he hasn’t felt in six years. The desire to be understood, accepted, comforted by the man staring coolly at him. He might be seven years old again, with his only goal in life—despite his mother’s and sibling’s forewarnings—to earn his father’s loving praise.

All he really needs to do is peel away his right glove, but that isn’t enough, he decides. He clutches the lapels of his coat and shrugs out of it, letting it drop to the dirt. Nash’s brows furrow in confusion as Russell slips his suspenders off his shoulders, then makes careful work of his buttons, his face hot as a burn despite the cool breezes that tickle his exposed skin.

“What are you—?” Nash’s sentence breaks off with a small, startled noise as Russell’s shirt joins his coat on the ground, bearing the automail, the scars. Meekly, he spreads his hands, exposing himself to the fullest extent, even as he shuts his eyes tight to avoid the look on Nash’s face.

“Russell...” he murmurs. Is that repulsion, or sympathy? Some blend of them both? Footsteps, and then Russell jumps involuntarily as light fingers close around his automail wrist, inspecting. He opens his eyes, but that does no more to help him gauge Nash’s reaction; he can only read the shock as his father stares at the arm, the elbow, and then places his hand briefly over the join of steel and flesh, very carefully avoiding Russell’s scarred skin. He mouths a word, a name, Russell thinks: _John._ He must mean Belsio—but no one uses Belsio’s first name, not even his own niece. Why would Nash, who barely knows him, as far as Russell is aware? He doesn’t get the chance to ask, because Nash suddenly pulls his hand away and—Russell’s stomach does a painful flip—takes several steps back.

“My leg, too,” Russell tells him, opting for total honesty. Hoping, praying that it won’t regret it. He looks down at his feet as Nash looks at his face, though he doesn’t miss his parted lips and wide, horrified eyes.

Then, his gaze whips back to the grave behind him. It isn’t Allison’s, but it doesn’t need to be: the shameful flush spreading down Russell’s neck confirms the question that he doesn’t ask.

“You—”

“I’m sorry,” Russell interrupts, the tiniest whisper.

“You tried to bring her back,” Nash says. The shock doesn’t leave, but something else creeps in that makes Russell’s blood run cold. Indignation.

All he can do is repeat himself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Father.”

“Did you—you _knew_. You _knew_ that it was forbidden and you tried it anyway?” Nash takes a breath, maybe to steady himself. Russell closes his eyes again. “When? When did this happen?”

“About four years ago.” Russell can’t bear to raise his voice above a mumble. Nash might have ripped the vocal cords right out of his throat. “February, nineteen-eleven.”

“Your sister,” Nash says, a realization. “Your sister. Where is she? What happened to her?”

Even now, Russell can’t resist correcting him. “My _brother_ is in Central City, and he’s fine.”

“You couldn’t have—”

“It wasn’t Fletcher’s fault, it was mine. It was my idea, all my idea, I bullied him into helping me,” he blurts out, shaking his head.

“ _Russell_ ,” Nash says again. Two syllables that gouge him like a knife. “Russell, how _could_ you? You knew that it was taboo, and dangerous, and stupid—what could have _possibly_ convinced you that it was a good idea?”

“I couldn’t live without you both!” he gasps. On _couldn’t_ , Russell’s voice cracks, and he presses his flesh hand over his mouth. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, terrified of how his father’s face must look; his tone has cowed him more than enough. “I couldn’t live without you both,” he repeats, this time a whisper, a plea.

There’s more that he could offer in his defense— _I wasn’t even eleven_ ; _they were going to take Fletcher and me away_ ; _why weren’t you there to stop me, then?_ —but he can’t bring himself to say any of it. He wraps the automail around himself almost in a hug, though the metal only chills him further, and tightens the muscles in his shoulders to keep them from shaking.

Silence. At long last, Russell cracks open an eye. Nash’s expression—thin lips, cold, glittering eyes—might be hewn from stone.

“You should have known better,” he says flatly. “I can’t belie—” He cuts himself off again, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t.”

He steps around Russell and walks swiftly away from the Lemacs’ grave, the tail of his coat whipping in the late evening wind.

Russell, feeling numb, stares at the headstone in front of him. _TOBIAS LEMAC_ on the left, _MARY BELSIO LEMAC_ on the right. Their dates of birth and death underneath, the latter the same for each. Russell can never decide if he pities or envies Elisa for losing both of her parents on the same day—at least she didn’t have to suffer the same heartache twice over.

Or, three time over, now.

With his hand still pressed to his mouth, he sinks to his knees in the dirt. Tears fill his eyes and make them burn.

_Stupid!_ he thinks. It becomes a chorus, a drumbeat— _stupid, stupid, stupid!_ God, how stupid _is_ he? Desperate enough to grovel for forgiveness, pathetic enough to want it above all things, arrogant enough to dare _think_ that there’s a chance for it—a chance that someone, especially someone he loves so much, could forgive _him_? _Russell_ , who played God, damned his brother, and tried to rip his resting mother from the earth because he was so pitiful as to want to hold her again? Nash’s rejection, however unspoken, drives the final nail into the coffin: Russell is unforgivable. Unlovable. As hideous in mind and spirit as the scars along his shoulder.

Moving his hand from his mouth, even as he continues to softly weep, he touches those scars, the rough, knotted skin. His fingers brush the beginning of his automail, and Russell has the sudden, bizarre urge to yank the steel—the mark of his shame—from his flesh. Let him bleed out, right where his father stood. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.

Then, footsteps. Hunched over with sobs, Russell twists to look over his shoulder, hoping against hope that maybe Nash has returned. Instead he recoils with horror and embarrassment at the sight of Ling.

“Russell?” he asks. Quickly, Russell turns away and tries to wipe his eyes on his bare wrist, his shirt and coat still on the ground beside him. “Are—are you _crying_?”

“No,” Russell spits savagely, as he chokes on another whimper. He presses his hands over his face, his teeth clenched as he tries—and fails—to regain control.

Ling kneels on the ground beside him; Russell flinches at the touch of his cool hands on his shoulders. “Russell, what happened? What’s wrong?” he says with rising alarm. Though he resists, he forces Russell to turn and face him. “Russell?”

“Go away,” Russell bites out.

“Russell, talk to me,” Ling insists. Another sob tears through Russell’s throat. “What happened? Who did this? Who hurt you?”

He should keep mum, salvage some dignity, at least—but he’s too weak. “M—” He swallows, fighting to speak. “My—my father, he was h-here.”

“Your father?” Ling’s eyebrows knit. “I thought your father was gone, Russell? You told me he left a long time ago.”

“He did. He came back. And h-he—” Russell shakes his head, fresh tears spilling over his hot cheeks. “Fuck, I’m such an idiot, Ling. I’m such an idiot.”

“No. No, no, no,” Ling says immediately. “No, Russell, you’re not. I promise you’re not.”

Russell shuts his eyes as the hands leave his shoulders, but they fly open again a mere second later when Ling instead puts his arms around his neck, his fingers cradling the back of Russell’s head. He’s helpless to fight the embrace; he sinks into it like he’s starving for it, his forehead pressed to Ling’s shoulder and his left hand tightening in the back of his jacket. Ling’s other hand rubs comforting circles into his back.

“He said—” Russell hiccups. “H-he said—”

“Don’t,” Ling interrupts, so harshly that Russell freezes. Ling hugs him tighter. “I already want to hurt him. Don’t make me want to kill him.”

He presses his cheek to Russell’s hair, tickling his ear with his soft breaths. The hand on his back leaves for just a moment to retrieve Russell’s coat from the ground; Ling gives it a shake and then wraps it snugly around Russell’s bare shoulders to protect him from the cooling air. “There you go,” he murmurs, and tries to fold Russell in his arms again—but this time, Russell pulls away with a fresh sob ripping through his throat, shaking his head fiercely.

“You wouldn’t be on my s-side if you knew!” he chokes out. “You’d hate me if you knew! You would, I know it!”

“If I knew _what_ , Russell?” Ling asks, staring at him beseechingly. “What’d make me hate you? What?”

Russell can’t bear to say it. He only clutches his mouth, rocking a little on his knees and trembling both from despair and the evening’s chill.

Ling’s hand reaches out, and Russell recoils. Yet, it’s for nothing—his fingers are impossibly gentle as they tuck Russell’s overlong bangs behind his ear, exposing his face, and then tip his chin up so that he’s forced to meet Ling’s eyes, dark as upturned earth. Then, to Russell’s bewilderment, he smiles.

“Russell.” His thumb swipes Russell’s wet cheek. “I already know.”

The breath leaves him in a sudden, horrified rush.

“I—I never knew how to tell you,” Ling continues, uncertain creeping in, “but, Russell—between the two of us, Mei and I figured out that you and Fletcher tried to bring back your mother with alchemy _months_ ago. Like, maybe a week after you left, if that. That’s what you’re talking about, right? Trying to bring back your mother? That’s what made your father so mad?”

“I showed him my arm,” Russell whispers.

Ling nods. Russell thinks that he sees a glimmer of fury in his eyes, but then it passes, and he looks at Russell with earnest.

“You are _not_ defined by your mistakes,” he says. “You are defined by how you _react_ to them. _That’s_ how you know what sort of person you are. _You_ are the sort of person who loves, who forgives, and who tries his damnedest every single time he’s knocked down. _Your father_ is the sort of person who’d rather put his own kid down than own up to _anything_. And he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve your time, he doesn’t deserve your talent, and he damn well doesn’t deserve your tears. You don’t owe him _anything_ , you hear me? Nothing at all.”

He keeps petting Russell’s hair as Russell focuses on his breathing, willing it to steady. In, out. In, out. After a few moments, he blows out a long, slow sigh, then sheepishly averts his eyes from Ling’s.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, dashing the rest of his tears on his sleeve. Ling tilts his head in confusion. “That you had to see me like this.”

He startles again—still feeling jumpy—when Ling clasps his hand as he lowers it from his face. He squeezes, and Russell’s already-warm cheeks grow even warmer. “It’s okay.”

Several moments pass in silence. Then, Ling covers his mouth with his hand and gasps.

“What?” Russell says, eyes widening.

Ling points at him. “You have two eyes!” he says dramatically.

Russell’s laugh comes out as a thick, watery snort—pretty gross, in all honesty, but with as undignified as he already looks, he can’t find it in him to bother him. Ling’s eyes are wide as cenz as he grins.

“I can’t believe it! Russell has two eyes!” he exclaims. He leaps to his feet, still clutching Russell’s hand and tugging him up also. “Come on! I’ve got to tell everyone! Everyone! Russell has _two eyes_!”

“Shut it! People are probably sleeping, idiot!” A reprimand rendered entirely meaningless by his continued giggling, especially when Ling laces their fingers together, automail and flesh.

It doesn’t look that bad at all.

* * *

“I can’t take your bed! I can’t do that, it’s—it’s too much!”

Russell, dry-eyed and fully clothed once more, walks in the kitchen with Ling at his side to find Fuery pleading with Belsio’s back. Belsio pays him minimal attention as he dries and puts away dishes at a fast and skilled pace.

“Please, let _me_ sleep on the couch,” Fuery insists. Belsio thoroughly ignores him as he opens a cabinet over Fuery’s head to fill an empty shelf with plates. “Letting me stay in your house is enough—I’ll sleep on the couch and you can stay in your own room, don’t you think that’s fair?”

“Wasn’t asking you,” Belsio says flatly, nudging Fuery aside to get to the silverware drawer. Fuery groans in anguish, as if he were being thrown out on the street.

“ _There_ you are!” Elisa says from the table. She’s in her pajamas clutching a mug of tea. Chamomile; Russell can tell by the smell. “They’ve been at it for like an hour,” she explains, gesturing to Fuery as he continues to follow Belsio around the kitchen like a desperate puppy. “In case you were wonderin’ about sleepin’ arrangements—you an’ your friend are in your room, I’m in mine o’ course, and the master sergeant’s gonna sleep in Uncle Belsio’s room while Uncle Belsio takes the couch.”

“No!” Fuery says furiously.

Belsio closes the last cabinet with a sharp snap. “Oh, knock it off already, will you. Relax, have some tea, stop running around like doomsday’s coming.”

“I—” Finally, Fuery surrenders. He takes a mug from the counter and sits at the table with a small, resigned sigh.

“There’s plenty of leftovers in the fridge, Russell. Get some if you’re hungry; you didn’t eat a whole lot today, I noticed,” Belsio says, and then stops. Russell hurriedly averts his gaze, worried his face might show some evidence of him crying.

After several seconds of peering at him, Belsio looks away again. “Elisa,” he says, casting a stern glance in her direction, “you’ve got school in the morning.”

She blows out a loud, long sigh, but that’s as much protest as she gives. She finishes her tea in several huge gulps, goes over and puts the mug in the sink, and then hugs Belsio around the waist—the only person who could get away with such a thing. “Goodnight,” she says to everyone, sweet as sugar, and wiggles her fingers at them all as she disappears down the hall and into her room.

Russell resists the urge to roll his eyes. If she doesn’t have something hidden under her bed to tinker with until the wee hours of morning, he’ll eat his boot.

Ling’s elbow digs gently into his side. “Care to show me the accommodations?” he says.

“Oh. Uh—sure, yeah.” He pointedly avoids Belsio’s eyes as he leads Ling down the hall to the bedroom opposite Elisa’s: his and Fletcher’s room.

Technically, a guest room, but Belsio rarely keeps any other guests. It must have been six years ago that Belsio put a second bed in here to keep Russell and Fletcher from arguing over who would have to take the floor every time they spent the night, which became more frequent as their mother started working odd jobs to support them after Nash’s departure. Allison was too stubborn to let Belsio help much more than that, though even as a child, Russell knew he often tried.

It isn’t that small a bedroom, but with two beds, two nightstands, and a dresser squished into a corner, it feels a bit cramped. Still, Russell’s memories of it are fond enough to make him smile, if bittersweetly. The smile fades as Ling comes up behind him.

“Which bed do you want?” he asks, kicking off his shoes. He thinks there might be a pair of sweatpants in the dresser—maybe even a second pair to loan Ling, if he wants.

“Which one’s yours?” Ling asks in return.

Russell points, crossing the room to retrieve the sweatpants and then stepping out to change. When he returns, Ling’s in his borrowed pajamas and lying in that bed, comfortable as can be, his long hair loose and spread over the pillow.

“I said that one’s mine, Ling,” he says, heaving a patient sigh.

“I know.” Ling smiles and pats the mattress. “Come on.”

Russell nearly drops his bundle of clothes on the floor.

“I mean—” Ling props himself up on an elbow as he gives an awkward laugh. The low light makes it hard to tell, but Russell thinks that’s a blush in his cheeks. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought, you know. After what happened, you might.” He gestures vaguely. “You know.”

_Be too vulnerable to want to sleep alone._ Ordinarily, Russell would be deeply offended at this assumption of weakness: he, State Alchemist at twelve years old, with more near-death experiences than the average person twice his age, can clearly handle sleeping in a bed by himself. And, yet ... he wraps his arms around himself, as if he were cold. He _doesn’t_ want to sleep alone. He wants a warm body to press against and a hand to hold—proof that he’s well deserving of the affection that others have denied him.

It doesn’t have to be weird, right? It isn’t like he has any secrets from Ling anymore.

“Push over,” he says. Ling beams as he does, and Russell, after clicking off the light, crosses over and slides in beside him, careful to keep his automail foot away from Ling’s toes.

Ling quickly snuggles in close, the ends of his hair tickling Russell’s neck. “Comfy?” he asks.

“Mm,” Russell says. He nearly slides an arm around Ling’s waist, but hesitates, remembering the automail. Ling notices and shakes his head.

“It’s okay. Go on.” Russell obeys; Ling shivers once at the coolness of the steel, then shuts his eyes with a sleepy, content sigh. “There we go. That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Russell breathes.

Ling hums. A soft smile crosses his lips. “Sleep tight, Russell.”

He doesn’t know how Fletcher lives without this.

“You, too. Sleep tight.”

* * *

Mere minutes later, it feels like, Russell startles awake at a knock on the door.

Not the bedroom door, but the door to the flat. Yet, that still makes no sense, Russell thinks; someone would have to have a key to the front door of Belsio’s workplace to get in the house at all, which would also grant them access to the stairwell door downstairs and then the apartment’s door. If someone had such a key—and Russell can’t imagine why anyone but Belsio or Elisa would—why would they bother to knock? What time _is_ it? A glance out the window says that it’s late, but dim light shines through the crack under the door, and within moments, Russell hears footsteps and the rattle of the doorknob: Belsio, letting in his guest.

Russell props himself up on an elbow. Beside him, Ling lies sprawled out with an arm thrown over his face, snoring softly.

“Well.” Belsio’s voice is deep enough to carry even from the living room. “Been a while since you showed your face around here. Breaking and entering’s a federal crime, you know.”

“You could have told me that Ally was dead.”

Nash. Russell’s heart seems to stutter in his chest. _Why is he here?_

“I’m sorry, how exactly?” Belsio says caustically. “It’s not like you left an address when you pissed off to God-knows-where. And, whatever you believe, you actually aren’t the only thing that’s ever on my mind.”

“A letter might have found me. You could have at least _tried_ ,” Nash insists, with some irritation. “Did you not think that I might like to know my _wife_ had died?”

“It crossed my mind, yeah, and then I decided I wasn’t gonna bust my ass trying to track you down again.”

What does he mean, _again_?

Silence follows this statement. Then Nash speaks again, so quietly that Russell strains to hear him from his bed. “She would have wanted me to know.”

“Hm. You don’t look so sure.” When Nash doesn’t respond, Belsio sighs sharply. “What are you doing here, Nash?”

There’s no helping it. Careful not to disturb Ling, who’s got a leg thrown over his, Russell extricates himself from the blankets and crosses the bedroom on tiptoe to kneel by the door. When his father speaks again, he risks turning the knob and opening it just a crack to better hear their voices.

“I—I wanted to talk to Ally. And you, John.” Nash’s voice is hesitant; Russell can’t imagine he’s looking Belsio in the eye. And again with Belsio’s first name, with no reprimand from the man himself. _Why?_ “Then I went to the house, and there wasn’t anything there but a pile of ash. I found her grave and figured she had died in the fire.”

“That was after she died. The boys started that fire before they left,” Belsio tells him.

“Is it true that Russell’s with the military?”

Russell hears footsteps and the creak of cushions. Belsio sitting down, he thinks.

“You said you wanted to talk, Nash, so talk. I’d like some answers, anyhow,” he says coolly.

More footsteps—presumably Nash’s this time—and a more careful squeak of cushions as he sits. Russell pictures them opposite each other, their eyes locked, deep black and pale gray. They know one another well; that much is obvious, though Russell never knew before tonight. And they’re clearly not on the best of terms. Why that is, Russell can’t say: the cause of the tension between them and the serrated edge in Belsio’s tone seems to have originated long before Nash left home.

Another short silence, and then Belsio speaks again. “You talked to Russell, didn’t you?”

“Did he tell you?”

“No,” Belsio says. “I recognized that look in his face. Like a dog whose master kicked it for clamoring for attention.”

That’s a little on the nose, Russell thinks sourly, reddening a bit.

“I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings,” Nash replies after a pause. “Or, at least—I wasn’t going out of my way to hurt him.”

“Of course not. Haven’t gone out of your way for that boy a day in your life, have you?”

Nash’s voice cracks as he struggles to respond to this. “I—I wasn’t cut out to be a father, Belsio—” he begins.

Belsio cuts him off. “And Allison wasn’t cut out to be a mother. She said so to me, she must’ve said so to you; you know how she was. She didn’t hold back. But she made it work, and you know why? Because she loved those boys with everything in her. She loved them, so she tried her hardest, and she _made it work_. You, you never tried. Not with her, and not with them.”

“I did try.” It’s very quiet, and spoken so hesitantly that Russell wonders if Nash even believes it himself. After a moment, he sighs. “Oh, all right. The assault on my parenting skills, while off-topic, isn’t ... entirely unwarranted. I admit that. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Belsio doesn’t dignify this with a response.

“But you and I both know that isn’t why you’re really angry, John.”

“What did you say to that boy, Nash?” Belsio asks, even harsher than before. Did Nash touch a nerve? What other reason does Belsio have to be angry at him?

Nash sighs again. There’s a noise that Russell thinks might be his father swiping his hand down his face. “I might have been a little insensitive.”

“Really? Now I can’t imagine that.”

“For heaven’s sake, John, enough with the sarcasm already. Please, can’t we talk like adults?”

“That coming from _you_?” Belsio makes a sound that Russell’s never heard before: a high, bitter laugh. “When have you _ever_ given me a straight answer about anything? When have you _ever_ wanted to talk like an adult?”

“Does now count?” Nash asks softly.

Belsio snorts. “You’re unbelievable, Nash Tringham. Goddamn unbelievable.”

“You must know what they did, Belsio,” Nash says. “Russell and Diana.”

“Fletcher.”

“Fletcher, then. The two of them...” He imagines Nash leaning in seriously. “John, I know you aren’t an alchemist. But even you must know that human transmutation is the ultimate taboo. It isn’t just against the laws of man—it’s a crime against nature itself. And yet, the two of them tried to use it to resurrect Ally. Part of me doesn’t even know how they survived it.”

“Hope you’re not asking _me_ how they did. You said it yourself: I’m no alchemist,” Belsio says. “All I know is they tried and it—it nearly killed them, Nash.” His voice softens, grows shaky. “God, if you’d heard those screams ... I’ll never forget them. Not as long as I live.”

Neither will Russell. He feels goosebumps along his arm just to think of that night.

“You weren’t able to stop them.”

“No.” It’s almost a murmur. “I wasn’t.”

“Belsio ... there are many principles involved when it comes to alchemy, but the first and foremost is that of equivalent exchange,” Nash says slowly. “Which means, in simplest terms, your input must equal your desired output. To obtain, you must sacrifice. And if you sacrifice...”

“You’ll get something,” Belsio fills in, sounding thoughtful. “What are you saying?”

Russell, heedless of the creak of the door, presses his ear against the crack, not wanting to miss a single word.

“Russell and Di—Fletcher, they created _something_.” Nash pauses. “What was it?”

This isn’t something that Russell has ever considered. He has few memories of that night after he bonded Fletcher’s soul; shock had him in and out of consciousness and everything felt like a dream, a nightmare. The results of their failed transmutation seemed obvious: his missing arm and leg, the armor that’s now his brother’s prison. Never has Russell thought of Fletcher and him having _created_ something. Yet, Nash’s words make sense. They _must_ have. So ... what was it? Russell’s equal parts desperate and loath to hear Belsio’s response.

“It—it wasn’t human, Nash,” he murmurs. “Whatever it was. It was—it was _meant_ to be, that was obvious, but it just, it wasn’t. There was blood, blood all around it. It was in this huge tub, I guess full of whatever compounds they’d tried to use to do the transmutation, and it was—it was too dark to see too well, but I think it had a head, and an arm; I remember an arm, scrabbling at the ground. And a pair of dark, empty eye sockets. And I just—I remember this _noise_ it was making, like it was struggling to breathe...”

Bile rises up in Russell’s mouth as he listens to this. He and Belsio have never spoken of that night; he tries to think of it as seldom as humanly possible, and he assumes that Belsio does the same. The words infect him with sudden, pulsating fear, his throat closing with it. In some twisted way, did he actually succeed in his goal that night?

“Was it her?” Nash whispers.

Russell can scarcely breathe for fear of hearing the answer.

“No,” Belsio says quietly. “The hair was black. Not red, like hers. Whatever that thing was, it wasn’t her.”

Nash breathes out a soft, slow sigh. Russell does the same, pressing his hand over his heart and willing it to steady. _It wasn’t her._ However wrong he was to try and transmute his mother, at least he didn’t make her a monster.

“What did you do?” his father murmurs.

“I’d brought a shovel. I crept up and I hit it. That’s all it took; it stopped that noise right away, almost like it died. I buried it in the backyard,” Belsio responds. “Your yard, not mine.”

“How did you find out about it?” Nash asks. “Did you find them?”

“They came to me. Fletcher brought Russell to me. Once I’d made sure he wouldn’t bleed to death, I pulled Fletcher aside and he told me everything.”

“And what did you say?”

“What did I _say_?” There’s a note of incredulity in Belsio’s voice. “Oh, I don’t remember, it was years ago—that they were wrong to do what they did, probably, but they’d be okay, I’d make sure of it. What, was that wrong?” Belsio demands with sudden heat. Nash must not look impressed with his response. “I’m sorry. Since you know everything, what should I have said?”

Nash ignores the jibe. “Russell showed me his automail arm. I know as much about automail as you do alchemy, but I know enough to recognize your handiwork when I see it. You built that arm. His leg, too, I assume.”

“Of course I did,” Belsio says flatly.

“This was, what, nearly four years ago?” Nash presses. “That would match the date on the headstone. You outfitted an eleven-year-old, _my_ eleven-year-old, with automail. Don’t you need consent for that kind of surgery? He was a child, Belsio!”

“I had consent,” Belsio insists. “Russell’s. I didn’t have a choice; he didn’t give me one. He begged and begged ‘til I finally gave in. You think I _wanted_ to? I’ve watched grown people pass out from the pain after screaming their throats raw. Russell knew that, and he pleaded with me to do it so much he cried.”

“ _No._ ” Belsio’s voice was firm, his back to Russell’s sickbed as he dropped his soiled gloves in a biohazard bin. “ _You’re too young to get automail. Your body hasn’t matured enough yet._ ”

“ _I’m tall for my age!_ ”

“ _And you’ll just get taller. You’ll keep on growing, especially once you hit puberty, and it’ll have to get replaced constantly. Every couple of months. Imagine how much it’ll hurt the first time, and then think of that repeated every few months ‘til you’re at least sixteen. Maybe even longer, if you end up as tall as your parents—five-ten, five-eleven. That’s a lot of pain you’re committing to, Russell._ ”

“ _I don’t care! I need a new arm and leg so that I can do what Lieutenant Colonel Mustang said and join the State Alchemists! So that I can get Fletcher his body back!_ ” Russell remembers his voice breaking, the tears he’d been fighting to hold back dripping onto the fresh bandages swathed around his torso. “ _Please, Belsio, you_ have _to! You have to, you have to, please! I have to be able to fix what I did! I don’t care how much it hurts, I have to be able to fix my little brother!_ ”

The pause that had followed had seemed endless, a quietly crying Russell on tenterhooks as Belsio stared at the wall. Then, finally, a resigned sigh.

“ _After your birthday. Your wounds will have healed enough by then. Then, I’ll do it. I’ll start the arm and leg tonight._ ”

“That’s all it took?” Nash asks.

“Do you assume everyone’s as much a heartless bastard as you are?”

“I know that you play by your own rules, but surely that was sidestepping a law or two. Operating on a child more or less in your care.”

“Well, it’s done,” Belsio says shortly. “And I’m not sorry for it. He needed my help and I gave it to him.”

“Yes, you’re generous as ever, John.” Nash’s sarcasm isn’t as pronounced as Belsio’s, but it’s still audible. “Were you really helping him, though? Pulling him out of every hole he dug himself into? Do you think you might have been doing more harm than good, in the long run?”

Belsio sputters in disbelief. “Was I really—more harm than— _your boy was dying, Nash_!” he suddenly shouts. Russell, who has never, ever heard Belsio raise his voice, jumps. Beside him, Ling gives a sleepy snort and rolls onto his side. “Your boy was dying! He came to me in his brother’s arms bone-white and soaked in blood! What the hell was I _supposed_ to do, you son of a—?!”

“Stop yelling, John, _please_. People are sleeping,” Nash urges.

Russell can hear Belsio’s harsh breathing from here, but he seems to remember himself and exhales. The cushions squeak again, as though he’d leaped up to holler at Nash.

“Do you think that lowly of me, John? That I would fault you for saving my son’s life? That isn’t what I was talking about,” Nash continues. “I meant the automail surgery. He went on and enlisted from there, didn’t he? All of, what, twelve, thirteen years old? How could you let him do that? Barely even a teenager and you let him join the military?”

“God knows I didn’t want him to. Those State Alchemists, they’re the military’s attack dogs, and there’s always some conflict or another going on somewhere; you know this country’s a hellhole underneath. And Russell, he’s softer than he’d ever admit. If they forced him on the front lines and had him killing innocents ... I doubt he could survive it.”

“He’s like Ally,” Nash says quietly.

Russell has tried so hard for so long to emulate Nash that he’s never considered being like his mother—or that he’s already like her. Fierce, argumentative, stubborn, but loyal, compassionate, and loving. A stickler for what he believes in. Unwilling to admit weakness or defeat even if it kills him. Maybe he’s his mother’s son in more than looks.

“Course he is,” Belsio answers. “He sure didn’t get that fire from you.”

“Did she talk about me at all, after I left?”

“Well, yeah, but she didn’t say much of anything good, if that’s what you’re asking,” Belsio tells him. “Elisa learned a lot of her swear words overhearing Allison complain about you.”

“But was she happy that I was gone?” Nash presses.

“Of course she wasn’t! She wanted you in those kids’ lives, Nash. And you should’ve been. You should’ve been there when Fletcher told us all he was a boy. You should’ve helped him pick out new clothes and cut his hair. You should’ve taught Russell all you know about alchemy—I swear the boy’s a genius, Nash. Fletcher, too, honestly. You should’ve been there to comfort him when we tried to give his old skirts and dresses to Elisa and they were too small for her. It should’ve been _you_ telling him you could be a boy no matter how little you were, not Russell and certainly not me. I see that look in your face, Nash. You think I took your place. I just gave those kids—and her—a fraction of what they needed. And from me, it wasn’t enough. _You_ could’ve been enough. And you left.” A pause, and Russell imagines Belsio looking at Nash beseechingly, shaking his head. “Why?”

“If I could undo it—” Nash begins softly.

“There’s no _undoing_ it,” Belsio interrupts, sounding harsh again. “That’s not the way the world works, Nash Tringham. You have to _live_ with the shitty thing you did.”

“You have _no idea_ —” Nash’s voice trembles; from anger, or something else? “—what I have to live with.”

“Of course I don’t.” Belsio isn’t fazed. “Don’t pretend it’s anyone’s fault but yours that you never let me in.”

Yet another pause—the longest thus far—stretches between them. The cushions squeak again; someone stood up.

“Is this all we’ve got now, John?” Nash asks in a pensive voice. “Is this all that’s left? Is there anything else to say between us?”

“I’ve said my piece,” Belsio responds. “You gonna say yours? Lord knows I’ve been waiting for it a long time now.”

“Something terrible is going to happen here,” Nash says. “In Amestris. I don’t know when; soon, most likely. If you can bear to leave, I would recommend it.”

Belsio gives a short laugh. “Don’t tell me that’s why you came. To say _that_? Really?”

“You don’t believe me?” Nash nearly sounds caustic. The tone produces a noise from Belsio that, despite having never seen him with such an expression, makes Russell imagine him with a sardonic smirk.

“Nash, honey, you have never, not once in all our time together, given me any reason to believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” Nash says.

“Oh, yeah?” Russell pictures the smirk sliding from Belsio’s face, an unforgiving look in its place. “What’s on my back, Nash?”

Russell, for the life of him, cannot make heads or tails of this. Nash should be able to, surely, but he says nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” Belsio’s voice is quiet and dark. Final. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”

There’s a clink of metal that Russell can’t place, footsteps, and then the sound of the front door opening and shutting. Belsio gives a loud sigh; Russell, still hidden behind the door, cautiously rises and prepares to analyze what he just heard.

Then: “You can come out now, Russell.”

Oh, _damn_ it.

Belsio’s leaning back in his favorite armchair when Russell sheepishly pads into the living room, his arms folded across his chest and his ankle draped over his knee. Russell stares down at his toes, flesh and steel, and waits for the reprimand that’s admittedly his due.

Instead, Belsio sighs. “Sit down. I’ll make tea.”

He doesn’t sound angry. Not even annoyed; merely exhausted. Still feeling tentative, Russell crosses over to the sofa and perches on the very edge, knees brought up to his chest, while Belsio goes to the kitchen and prepares the kettle. He returns moments later and sits with his elbow propped on his thigh and his forehead braced against his hand.

“Well?” he prompts, when Russell says nothing. “I expect you’ve got questions.”

Several of them. What comes out first is, “I didn’t know that you knew my father.”

Belsio shrugs, sitting back. “Course I did. We were neighbors.”

“That’s not what I mean. You knew him as well as you did my mother,” Russell says. “But how? You never seemed like friends to me.”

At _friends_ , Belsio snorts. “We weren’t friends any time that you can remember, trust me. Don’t know if we were ever ‘friends.’ But I know his mind like I know mine—wish I didn’t, sometimes, but I do. He can play at complex all he wants, but he’s an open book to me.”

It crosses Russell’s mind to ask how—his mouth, though, has different ideas. The question spills out before he can stop it. “Why? Why is he like that? Why is he so cold, why does he shut everyone out, why isn’t—?” He hesitates, cheeks heating. “Why isn’t anything that I do good enough for him?” he finishes in a murmur.

Belsio sighs again, long and slow. When he speaks, his voice is as gentle as Russell’s ever heard it. “At his heart, your father’s a loner, Russell. Takes one to know one, obviously, but he’s not like me. Lots of people just make me uncomfortable; you know that. Him, he’s paranoid. Incredibly. He sees catastrophe wherever he looks and there’s nothing in the world someone could do to convince him to trust them, so he shuts ‘em out and pushes ‘em away before they’ve got the chance to betray him, and he’s arrogant enough to really believe that everyone’s out to get him. It’s Nash Tringham versus the world, and he won’t take any allies no matter how hard you try to persuade him you’re on his side.

“He’s aware of all this, too,” he adds when Russell parts his lips to ask. “Oh, definitely. Nash understands himself perfectly well, and that’s why he hates himself so much. Whatever he said to you at the cemetery, Russell, I promise he didn’t feel good about it. But he also didn’t feel bad enough to keep from doing it again. Part of him would love to change and be a better person, sure, but in the end, it’s too much effort. He’s too comfortable doing what he’s already doing. Set in his ways, you know. Compared to him, Allison was damn near flexible enough to be an acrobat.”

It earns a laugh, a genuine one. Belsio smiles fleetingly before he grows solemn, reaching out a hand to cover Russell’s forearm. “The important thing you’ve got to keep in mind is, it’s not you, Russell. I know it’s hard to accept. Gotta be even harder for you, since you’re his son. But it’s the honest truth: it’s him, not you. All right?”

“All right,” Russell murmurs.

“Say it.”

“It’s him, not me,” he recites. It’s loath to sink in, but Russell knows that it makes sense. It _can’t_ have been him: Nash treated Fletcher, Allison, and apparently Belsio with the same negligence. He treated Russell this way long before he even knew what human transmutation _was_. He says it again. “It’s him, not me.”

Belsio takes his hand away. “Good. You just keep that in mind whenever you’re feeling low, all right? Just remember you didn’t do anything wrong, and try not to let him get to you.”

“How is he supposed to _not_ get to me?” Russell insists. “He’s my father! I’m _supposed_ to want to make him happy, and—and proud of me, and if I fail in that, then—then it’s my fault, isn’t it?”

Belsio stares at him levelly for several seconds, his expression impassive. Then, in an unfittingly casual voice, he tells Russell, “My father was a violent alcoholic who drank himself to death when I was your age. Still the only nice thing he ever did for me. My mother was a spiteful old hag with nothing kind to say to or about anyone, who made sure I knew she preferred my older sister. Awful people, both of them. Did I ever want to make them proud? Course I did. But I learned the hard way it wasn’t possible, and I did the smart thing and gave up. I finally ran off when I was about sixteen, seventeen. Best decision I ever made. When Mary and her husband died, dear old Mom put so much energy in keeping me from getting custody of Elisa that it killed her, and I’d bet every cenz I own that she went to her grave cursing my name. And you know what?”

“W-what?” Russell asks, struggling to hide his surprise at this revelation.

A smirk twitches on Belsio’s mouth. “I feel just fine.”

Russell takes a moment to let this sink in. Never has he heard Belsio talk about his childhood; in all honesty, it’s hard to even _imagine_ Belsio as a child. He tries to picture it. A tiny John Belsio with messy black hair and deep, dark eyes, skinny and looking skinnier in overlarge clothes. Hiding from his father’s drunken fists and his mother’s cruel words. Somehow, that child grew up into the person sitting in front of him now: the gruff, no-nonsense automail mechanic that Russell insists is the best in the world, and one of the most decent people that he’s ever met. It offers him hope.

“Society peddles this idea that your family’s got to be the most important people to you, purely because they’re your family. ‘Blood is thicker than water’ or whatever,” Belsio continues. “Pardon the language, but that’s bullshit. You don’t owe your family anything on account of being related. The only people in your life who you owe are the people that are kind to you. If that’s your family, then that’s great for you. If it’s not? So be it.”

It’s something that Russell already believed, really. He just never applied it to himself and his own life—too attached to what he wanted to be to see what actually was.

“I never realized how much I didn’t know about you,” Russell says quietly. “Your past, knowing my father...” Another thought occurs to him. “When you two were talking, my father said something like, ‘I know this isn’t why you’re really angry at me.’ What did he mean by that? Did he do something else to make you mad at him?” It only makes sense. Belsio is too slow a boil to detest Nash without plenty of reason for it.

“He was just derailing. Trying to avoid owning up to what he’d done,” Belsio responds. “He wanted to paint me as in the wrong, too. The man’s got a victim complex the size of the Xingese royal family.”

“So he didn’t do anything to you specifically to make you not like him,” Russell says.

Before Belsio can answer, the teakettle starts shrieking. Russell follows him into the kitchen and produces two mugs while Belsio finds teabags.

“Sure he did. He did plenty to make me not like him,” Belsio tells him, shrugging. He pours boiling water in each of their mugs with such precision, he doesn’t spill a drop. Then he replaces the kettle and leads the way back into the living room. Without saying a word, he makes himself clear: Russell won’t be hearing any specifics about the root of his dislike of Nash Tringham. It was worth a try, at least.

He reclaims his spot on the sofa, placing his mug on the coffee table. “And what did _you_ mean when you s—”

He breaks off with a hiss of pain as hot tea splashes onto his hand. Glancing at the mug, Russell realizes that there’s something under it, making it unbalanced; he moves the mug aside to steady it and then inspects. A key. He picks it up with his automail hand, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It looks like a copy of the key to Belsio’s house—but Elisa’s has a chain looped through it to wear as a necklace, and Belsio’s a thin leather strap to attach to his belt on the rare occasions that he leaves home. A spare key?

He suddenly remembers that clink of metal before Nash left. Was this it: Nash tossing this key onto the glass-topped coffee table? That would fit the noise, but why did Nash have a key to—?

Oh, fucking _hell_. The lingering familiarity, Belsio’s resentment, the key. _You and I both know that this isn’t why you’re really angry. I know his mind like I know mine._ Using Belsio’s first name without incident. For God’s sake, Belsio called him _honey_ ; sure, he was being sarcastic, but—

Russell is such an _idiot_.

“Careful, tea’s ho—”

“You and my father were together,” Russell blurts.

Belsio, his own mug midway to his mouth, pauses. His eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“That’s why you dislike him so much, and what he meant when he said that you had a different reason for being angry at him, and—” Belsio narrows his eyes to slits, and Russell wavers, color creeping up his neck. “It—it really isn’t any of my business,” he concludes meekly.

Belsio sighs sharply through his nose, occupying himself with his tea. “You’re right,” he says shortly. Then, after he takes a sip: “On both counts.”

“You _were_?” Russell says, wide-eyed. “Wait—how? When?!”

“It was before Nash met your mother and _well_ over by the time you were born, I promise,” Belsio tells him, stepping on the end of Russell’s sentence. “And that’s really all you need to know about it.”

“But—” Russell begins. Belsio quells him with a look, and he slumps against the back of the sofa, defeated. He supposes there _is_ only so much that he’d want to hear about his father’s romantic history—Belsio’s, too, really—but even so, he can’t help his incredible curiosity about the pair of them. Nor can he resist another question as it comes to him. “But you and my mother. You were such good friends,” he says.

“Yeah,” Belsio answers. “So?”

Russell stares into his tea to avoid his eyes. “Wasn’t that—I don’t know— _awkward_? Since she and my father were married?”

“Maybe a little at first,” he concedes. “But you know how your mother was. Real vivacious, that one. It was hard for anyone not to like her, ex’s wife or no.”

Russell nods. As he takes a sip of tea, he remembers his question from earlier. “What in the world did you mean when you asked my father what was on your back?”

Belsio freezes, fingers tightening around the handle of his mug; Russell watches his knuckles whiten. When he speaks, his voice is tight. “Exactly what I said. I want to know and he won’t tell me. Doesn’t have the decency to. He’s a damn dirty coward is what he is.”

“But what do you _mean_ , he won’t tell you what’s there?”

A muscle twitches in Belsio’s jaw as he seems to debate whether or not to answer. Then, after a short period of silence, he exhales. “It’s some sort of symbol drawn there. I can’t figure out what it means, especially since obviously I can only see it in a mirror, and barely even then. But your father knows. He knows what it means and who put it there and he won’t say a word, even now.”

“Drawn on … you mean like a tattoo?” Russell asks. Belsio glowers into his mug instead of answering. The realization comes to him then, and a chill crawls up his spine like a many-legged insect. “You mean to say someone tattooed something on your back against your will?”

The heavy silence is as good as any answer. Russell swallows, his stomach turning a little at the thought. It’s upsetting enough to imagine a young Belsio being physically and verbally abused, but permanently marked without his consent…

“What h—?”

“I really, _really_ don’t want to talk about it,” Belsio interrupts. Something in his tone—as close to pleading as Russell as ever heard from him—makes Russell drop it immediately.

Belsio glances over at a clock on the wall and stands. “It’s really late, Russell. You should be getting to bed. You’ll be leaving first thing in the morning, I figure.”

“P-probably, yeah,” Russell agrees, with some hesitation. He can’t help the odd feeling of being dismissed and doesn’t want this to be the note that they part on. Belsio seems oblivious to it, going into the kitchen to put away his mug and then to the hall.

“Night, Russell.”

“Goodnight,” Russell murmurs, clutching his mug as he watches him. Before he disappears into his bedroom, though, he calls out, “Belsio.”

He pauses, one foot in the doorway, an eyebrow raised.

“Th—thank you,” Russell tells him, still a bit hesitantly, but sincerely. “For sticking up for me. When you were talking to my father.”

Belsio’s mouth twitches in what might be a smile. “I’ll be gray before I’m forty ‘cause of you,” he says, “but you’re a good kid, Russell. You’ve got a good heart. You know—” it’s Belsio’s turn to hesitate, his hands burying themselves in his pockets as he turns a bit to face him, “—I don’t think I ever told you this specifically, Russell, but, uh. I’ve always thought of you more as Allison’s son than Nash’s. You’re a lot more like her. And your mother was one of the best people I ever knew, and you know how stingy I am with people.”

Russell blushes deeply at the compliment, his eyes flitting down to his mug of tea. “Thanks,” he says softly. “That means a lot.”

Belsio gives a curt nod, then turns and goes into his room, shutting the door behind him with a gentle _click_.

Russell clutches his mug between both hands and brings it to his lips to drink. The tea isn’t the only thing that puts warmth in his chest; the feeling travels all the way down to his toes.

* * *

Russell wakes up the next morning to the sounds of Elisa scrambling to get ready for school on time—not for the first time, she overslept.

“Consider investing in an alarm clock,” Russell suggests as she hops around the kitchen, one hand clutching a piece of toast while the other tries to pull a sock up to her knee.

“She’s _got_ one,” Belsio responds. Compared to his niece, he’s the picture of serenity as he examines some blueprints over coffee. He glances up for a moment. “What happened to your alarm clock, Elisa?”

Her sock on, she throws her open bookbag over a chair and starts stuffing it with papers. “I took it apart!” she hollers through a mouthful of toast, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She swallows hugely, swings her bag over her shoulder, and hurries over to loop an arm around Belsio’s neck and press her lips to his cheek. “Okay, love you! Gotta go! Bye!”

“Your shoes,” Belsio reminds her as she sprints to the door.

“I’ll put ‘em on when I get downstairs! Bye!”

She disappears with the sound of her feet pounding on the stairs.

Belsio shakes his head, sighing. “What am I gonna _do_ with that girl,” he mutters. Still, he doesn’t look too stern as he returns to his blueprints.

Fuery, straightening his uniform, enters from Belsio’s bedroom. His lips are pursed and there’s a line between his eyebrows. “The earliest train to Central City isn’t going to leave for another hour and a half,” he informs Russell, disgruntled. “But the more time we loiter, the more suspicious we seem—!”

“Relax, will you?” Russell says. “The higher-ups probably think that I’m here for automail maintenance—and you’re my trusted escort and guard.” He tries to say it with as little irony as possible: really, Russell would rather have Elisa and her wrench by his side in a fight than Fuery.

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to look at your arm, anyhow,” Belsio adds, setting his mug down. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “What do you say, Russell? We don’t even have to go downstairs—just wanna do a quick inspection, maybe tighten some screws here and there.”

“Uh … sure, yeah,” Russell responds, forcing a smile that feels like a grimace. He never did tell Belsio that the arm he built had to be replaced a few weeks ago. He’ll love that.

While Belsio deftly turns a chair around and has Russell straddle it, Ling shuffles into the kitchen, looking rumpled in the clothes he wore yesterday and his hair in a sloppy ponytail.

“Good morning,” Fuery tells him.

“Can’t talk,” Ling mumbles. “Need food.”

He pads over to the refrigerator, pulls out a casserole dish, and fishes a fork from a nearby drawer before he plops down on the counter to feast.

Belsio stares at him for several seconds, nonplussed. Then, he merely shakes his head and steps out to find his toolkit. “Russell,” he says upon return, “I’m happy you made a friend, believe me. Next time, though, try a friend who isn’t a bottomless pit.” Ling eats on, unabashed.

Russell shrugs off his suspenders and unfastens his buttons. Silence greets him when he lets his shirt slide down his arms, exposing his shoulders.

“This ain’t mine,” Belsio says bluntly after several seconds.

Russell gulps. When he starts talking like Elisa, he means business.

“No, it isn’t. You see, um—there was a—an _altercation_ , a little bit ago—” he begins. Belsio exhales sharply through his nose. “And, er—the arm, it—kind of got torn off…?”

“Torn off,” Belsio repeats. Russell gives a sheepish nod. After several more beats, while Russell shifts uncomfortably and Belsio’s eyes bore into him, Belsio pulls up a second chair and sits behind him. “Gonna go bankrupt ‘cause of you, boy, I swear to God,” he mutters as he gets to work. “How does an automail arm get _torn off_ —you know what, I don’t wanna know.”

“I’ll pay double to make up for it. How’s that?”

“Won’t pay me at all. I’m not taking your money,” Belsio answers. The expected response. Still, it was worth the attempt.

He lapses into silence as he works, oiling joints and tightening screws with such precision, Russell only feels the occasional twinge of pain. When he finishes eating, Ling sidles over to watch; his eyebrows lift in idle interest.

“If it’s money you’re worried about, I bet you could make a fortune in Rush Valley,” he tells Belsio. “The automail capital of Amestris and birthplace of yours truly. Especially since Russell tells me you’re the best mechanic in the whole world.”

Russell cringes a bit. He stands by it, but he didn’t necessarily want the compliment passed on: aloud, it sounds nearly revering. Belsio only hums in reply.

“Couldn’t go to Rush Valley if I wanted to. Anyway, I’m happy here. Not about to mess with a good thing,” he says.

“Why can’t you?” Ling asks.

Belsio’s screwdriver pauses mid-rotation. Unable to move, Russell tries to communicate to Ling with only his eyes to let it go, but Ling tips his head in curiosity heedless of any insensitivity in the question.

“My brain’s not wired right,” Belsio finally says, surprising Russell. It isn’t usually something that he’s willing to talk about. “Not sure how or why, but something got messed up when I was about your age, maybe a little older, and it’s gotten worse with time. Guy runs at you with a knife; there’s a physical reaction to that, right? Heart starts pounding, you start sweating, teeth chattering, you know.” He picks up the oil and dabs some around another screw before he starts to tighten it. “There’s science behind it. Chemicals in your brain flood your system and tell you to be on edge like that, so you’re ready to either confront the thing that’s got you all up in arms or run the hell away from it. It’s a survival reflex. When you’re actually in danger, it’s a really useful thing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Russell sees Ling nod. Belsio gives a screw in Russell’s shoulder one last twist before he leans back in his chair, swiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“When you’re _not_ in danger, though, it’s not useful at all. And that’s what happens to me,” he tells Ling. “Some days I can’t even go out to the mailbox without my brain going haywire telling me I’m in danger. Tried talking myself out of it; nothing’s worked yet. All those chemicals are having a field day and I _feel_ scared even though I know there’s nothing to be scared of. Farther from the house I go, the worse it gets. So I don’t leave too much if I can help it. Save myself the trouble. Rush Valley definitely isn’t an option for me.”

Ling seems to be at a rare loss for words. “That sounds awful,” he says after a moment. “There’s nothing you can do to—I don’t know, treat that? Maybe seeing a doctor could help?”

Belsio gives a short laugh. “Not a doctor in this town who believes me when I try to explain it. Again and again, I get told it’s just a matter of willpower. If I really wanted to get over it, I would, they say.” Russell can’t see his face, but he imagines that Belsio rolls his eyes. “All right, Russell, you’re done. Good job not having any bullet holes this time.”

“ _One time_ ,” Russell mutters irritably, swiftly rebuttoning his shirt and wriggling back into his suspenders.

“Great!” Fuery says. He brings his hands together. “Then, if you don’t mind, major, I really think we ought to be going—the less we dawdle, the better I’ll feel.”

Meaning, the _more_ that they dawdle, the more that he’ll twitter like a small, anxious bird. Russell supposes they should be heading back to Central anyway: he vanished without any explanation and can only hope that Fletcher hasn’t worried himself to death. He rises.

“Sure thing, master sergeant. How about we meet you downstairs?”

Fuery salutes, then turns on his heel and hurries out of the kitchen to the stairwell. Russell looks at Belsio, still sitting with his elbow propped on the back of his chair.

Many, many times has Belsio adjusted his automail, but for some reason, this time feels different. Is it what he overheard last night? How Belsio defended him, took his side when even his own father wouldn’t, in spite of how he personally disagrees with the means Russell uses to achieve his goals? It isn’t as if Belsio’s support is anything new: the man did everything he could for Russell’s family after Nash left, cared for Russell and Fletcher when Allison died, and even now equips Russell with expensive prosthetics at no cost, purely out of the goodness of his heart.

To Nash, the automail was a deformity, an appalling remnant of Russell’s worst mistake—and for so long, Russell believed so, too. He looks down at his right hand, gloveless and glinting gently under the light. How wrong he was. His automail isn’t a mark of shame. It’s a mark of compassion. Of love.

“Thank you,” Russell says, from the bottom of his heart.

Belsio raises his eyebrows, then shrugs, standing. “Don’t mention it. Just doing my job. Russell,” he adds a moment later, right as he’s about to walk out the door. Russell looks back. “Call me when you get to Central.”

A smile touches Russell’s lips. “Will do.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is NOT a new chapter, sadly, though that is in the works!! i wanted to share some amazing art for this fic i received for my birthday, as well as a playlist i created specifically for this fic to let you know i haven't forgotten about it & have plans to continue it soon. hope you're all doing well!!

the obligatory roleswap playlist. credit to [@jeminy3](https://tmblr.co/m3IAnloIWilsCIWmshvp_Bg) for the beautiful art. _**[[listen](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fopen.spotify.com%2Fuser%2Fgordonheight%2Fplaylist%2F4mzkkdEQf4vf8xAZWIXpK7%3Fsi%3DCFXqryfIS36J5QHiryo3Aw&t=ZDQ5NTcxNjRjOTdmZjNiYTIyNzQwNjQ1NDBhYTY5M2M0MzcwZTM0NCxOZzdHa2ljcw%3D%3D&b=t%3AXXoj0OijY1mYPKAateOqaA&p=http%3A%2F%2Frusselltringham.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F173554132500%2Fthe-obligatory-roleswap-playlist-credit-to&m=0)]**_  


> WHEN YOU’RE YOUNG / three doors down. THIS AIN’T A SCENE, IT’S AN ARMS RACE / fall out boy. ALL IN / lifehouse. IT’S MY LIFE. bon jovi. ALL THE RIGHT MOVES / onerepublic. SING / my chemical romance. WARRIORS / imagine dragons. REVOLUTION / diplo feat. faustix & imanos and kai. YOU FOUND ME / the fray. IT ENDS TONIGHT / the all-american rejects. HERO / chad kroeger feat. santana. ZOMBIE / the cranberries. HOW FAR WE’VE COME / matchbox twenty. ATLAS / coldplay. LIVE LIKE WE’RE DYING / kris allen. EVERYWHERE / michelle branch. HEAVEN / o.a.r.


End file.
